FLOATERS (INTRO/TEASER) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net I wrote the bulk of this during my vacation in South Beach, Miami, a place you'll be able to picture if you've seen "The Bird Cage," where it was filmed. This story's not part of the Puppets universe -- needed a break from that one. The timeline is third season, before Talitha Cumi, but that's where our worlds diverge. It's an X-File with character stuff, creepiness and, I hope, humour. I still tend to get a little too wrapped up in dialogue, a weakness of mine, I'm afraid, even though I'm working on it, but there's an honest-to-god plot there too, I swear. Also, in my universes, the assumption is that Mulder's Jewish. This seems to bother some people, although I don't know why; I'm not Jewish and it doesn't bother me. In any case, I don't feel a need to apologize for or justify it. He feels Jewish to me, and while this may be inspired in part by DD's own comments on the subject, it's not the only reason. As we say up here in Quebec, dat's eet, dat's hall. Also, I want to say that in describing the habitues of South Beach, I wrote it as I saw it; this is a place where gay men and women live proudly, unashamed of who they are. The drag queens are proud drag queens and no one here feels the need to defend their manifestations. This doesn't mean that everyone in South Beach is a queen, or that I believe all gay men are queens, or even that everyone in South Beach is gay. But it *is* refreshing to find a place where people can feel free to express themselves as they wish without fear of retribution. The story: Some off-the-cuff spoilers. Anti-relationship readers beware: Blame CC for not giving M & S anything else in their private lives except each other. All feedback welcome, pro and con. Writing these things is a way for me to experiment with techniques and ideas that help my own "serious" writing, so hearing what works and what doesn't is a vital part of the process. Criticism doesn't frighten me at all: let it rip. ********************************************************* DISCLAIMER: The X-Files concepts and characters are the property of Chris Carter and Fox, are used without permission with no intent to publish and are perfect in every way, obviously the result of a genius at work. All other miserable, flawed, pathetic characters and concepts are my own. ********************************************************* SOUTH BEACH MIAMI, FLORIDA WEDNESDAY 11:21 PM Alice Moriano squinted at the TV screen. She loved M*A*S*H, always had, she couldn't get enough of it, even though she'd seen every episode about a million times. Too bad about Alan Alda; he'd found the perfect balance of maleness and sensitivity in the series and then had wimped out completely. Too many goddam Neil Simon movies. He'd become such a wuss by the mid-'80s that she couldn't even stand looking at him at him anymore. Except in M*A*S*H. God, he was perfect in the series, though. Funny, warm, intelligent -- a dream come true. She could hear the screams from the street, the laughter, another parade of fags on their way to the bar next door. Alice still remembered the days when South Beach was just a beach, a fun place with a few dilapidated art deco buildings, sure, but nothing like the candy-coloured monstrosities that lined the beach now. These days, Ocean Drive looked like goddam Main Street USA in goddam Disney World. She hated it. But then, Alice Moriano hated most things. Except M*A*S*H. And Alan Alda, before he'd turned into a goddam pussy. She blinked. Goddam spots. She rubbed her eyes. Lately, Alice had been seeing tiny black spots in front of her eyes. Floaters, her doctor called them. They swirled around in front of her like a cloud of gnats, shifting madly when her focus changed. Then they'd settle right in front of her eyes again, vibrating, swimming around. As if they were taunting her. As if they wanted to get her attention for something. Well, they had her attention all right, the fuckers. It was worse when she looked at something white, or in the daytime when the sky was bright, or right now, when she was trying to watch TV. The doctor said there was nothing he could do; it happened sometimes, no one knew why. Something to do with the optic nerve. In certain cases, he'd told her, it got so bad that some people actually went crazy. She'd complimented him on his bedside manner. Although she hadn't used those words, exactly. The she'd left his office, slamming the door behind her. Alice Moriano was the first to admit she had a bit of a temper. And now she was having trouble focusing and the fucking fags were whooping it up in the bar next door; it had opened last summer and had been driving her crazy ever since. The dull throb of house music was pounding through her floor as it did most nights, and this night she found it even more intolerable than usual. It was a good thing her husband had had the good grace to die a few years back -- a wasted life she'd spent with that useless bum, but what did she expect, marrying a spick because he knew how to pleasure a woman and she'd fallen for it at the time -- because if he hadn't died she'd have taken it out on him just because he was around, the way she was feeling. No point in trying to focus on that wimp Major Burns right now; the spots were dancing up a storm and she could barely see what was going on. She got up, shaking on her feet because of the damn bass through the floor, and started looking for the kerosene. When you live in hurricane country, you're ready for everything. Her husband had stashed about a 29-year supply of kerosene for the generator in the basement. They'd never had to use the fucking thing, but at least, as he kept saying over and over again, they were ready. Well, he certainly hadn't been ready for the heart attack that had decked him in one minute flat on the construction site where he'd been working that August morning. Alice Moriano smiled thinly. El Morte doesn't give a shit how many supplies you've put aside for a blustery day. No one ever thinks they're gonna die, she thought absently. Funny. And it's the only thing everyone does. Except get born, shit, piss, breathe and come every once in awhile. Everyone does those. Fucking charming. Finally, she located a canister in the closet near the stairs. As she hummed the theme from M*A*S*H, she soaked a rag in the stuff and stuffed it in the opening of the can. She couldn't quite remember the name of the song, although she'd heard the words when she'd finally seen the movie. The movie had come first, but she didn't particularly like either Donald Sutherland or Eliot Gould. Two more wusses in a world filled with the fuckers. She was still humming the tune when she walked into the bar next door and lit the fuse with the tip of her cigarette. MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT MIAMI, FLORIDA SATURDAY 7:28 PM Jimmy Bains slopped his mop in the bucket and slapped it on the floor in front of yet another urinal where some frequent flyer had pissed the floor in a rush to get somewhere more interesting. Well, even he had to admit anywhere else had to be more interesting than here. Probably some fucking high-falutin' nigger on his way to some fucking token high-paying job. They were always the ones who pissed like they didn't give a shit where it landed, that's how big their dicks were. In his daddy's time, no nigger would've been using these bathrooms at all. He rubbed his eyes tiredly with his free hand. Fucking spots. He'd started seeing spots about a month ago, little black fuckers that swam in front of his eyes like fucking sperm in a Sex Ed video. Jimmy Bains was born and raised in Florida, and when he was a kid, everyone knew their place, including the fucking niggers. He patted the gun in his jacket pocket. Jimmy had fought for the right to carry it, because the airport was a dangerous place at night, because you never knew what you'd be up against slopping out the bathrooms late, and the Union had backed him up all the way. A cleaner had been mugged and almost killed last year by some fucking tourist. The guy was white, they said, but he was a foreigner; they were just as bad. Jimmy was 57 now but he knew how to stand up for his rights. And he planned to live long enough to enjoy his retirement. Fucking spots. They were making him crazy. He was worried that the spots were the result of his six-beer- a-day habit. Hell. Alcoholics drank a lot more than six beers a day, right? But he'd been doing it since he was 18, and lately he'd started sneaking an extra couple of beers during his break. Eight a day. So what? That wasn't anything special, was it? He should probably see a doctor, but who could afford to spend the money on a visit to the clinic? The niggers with their big fat jobs, that's who. Not Jimmy. Not his father, not his grandfather. And anyway, the doc would probably just tell him to quit drinking. It wasn't something Jimmy was ready to hear. These days, he'd probably wind up with a nigger doctor anyway. And that was something he couldn't even begin to deal with. The door to the washroom suddenly slammed open. Jimmy turned, slouched over his mop, as four black teenagers strutted into the place. They were exchanging wisecracks as they headed for the urinals. "Sorry, pops," one of them said as he brushed past him. Jimmy Bains smiled through his teeth. Their backs were to him as they joked around. Quite frankly, he'd had enough. He slipped his gun out of his pocket and started shooting. CONTINUED IN PART 1 FLOATERS (PART 2) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net All comments welcome, pro and con. DISCLAIMER IN INTRO Rated "R" for language. MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT MIAMI, FLORIDA SUNDAY, 4:20 PM They were met at the gate by Philip Hansen, assistant head of operations for the Miami FBI Intercultural Affairs division. "Hell of a euphemism, ain't it?" Mulder muttered to Scully through the side of his mouth as Hansen walked towards them, badge in place on his lapel and his right hand out. Mulder hated overt shows of FBIness in public when an actual crisis wasn't in progress. It made the masses huddle and talk in hushed whispers. It was ostentatious, it was melodramatic, it smacked of a need to pretend that primetime television had something to do with the real world. Mulder hated the badge predominantly displayed on Hansen's jacket. That said, the man seemed like a nice enough guy. He was a couple of inches shorter than Mulder, about the same age -- nice change in a field filled with apple-cheeked cherubs -- with neat blond-brown hair and, if truth be told, a rather fetchingly handsome face, in a goyish kind of surfer-boy way. He saw that Scully noticed this too, appraising Hansen quickly, thoroughly, in a way Mulder had come to know well. She was clinical and efficient about it, as always, except he had the distinct impression her eyes lingered on him a little longer than usual. She wasn't alone; Hansen seemed fascinated by his partner, and he shook her hand enthusiastically for more time than Mulder felt was strictly necessary. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "Uh, Scully..." She turned to him distractedly. "What?" "We have work to do." She stared at him before throwing a glance at Hansen, who smiled and nodded. "Okay, Mulder. We're doing it. Right, Agent Hansen?" "Absolutely." Hansen grinned disarmingly at Mulder. "There's not much to see anymore, though; the airport authorities have already cleaned up the washroom, understandably. But there's no real mystery here; we've got the guy in custody and he's already admitted to killing those poor kids." What a nice G-man, Mulder thought grimly as he walked behind Hansen and Scully down the hall. So why did he feel an almost overwhelming urge to punch him in his perfect, smiling, all- American face? They took a cursory look at the washroom where the previous night's carnage had taken place. As Hansen had said, there was no trace of the shooting spree except for a couple of chipped and cracked tiles over the urinals. The FBI agent had produced graphic photographs, however, which made Mulder's stomach clench even though he'd seen far worse in his day. Four young black boys lying side by side in a large pool of their own blood. One kid's arm was thrown over the shoulder of another's, as if at the last moment he'd wanted to say, hey, I love you, buddy: sorry we live in the kind of world where I couldn't tell you that when we were still alive. Or something to that effect. Scully looked at him as he gazed at the photographs. "You okay, Mulder?" "Doin' dandy. Thanks for asking." She pursed her lips and said nothing. Mulder badly wanted to meet the fucking bastard who'd done this lovely deed. Just to shake his hand and shoot the breeze. Just to ask him what the fuck was wrong with his twisted excuse for a head and slap him around until he explained it. In the meantime, all he could feel were the other two's eyes on him as he turned and walked out of the washroom. Scully stood near the airport main entrance with Hansen as they waited for Mulder to bring around the rental car. "Bit of a grouch, isn't he?" Hansen said conversationally. He'd been looking at her surreptitiously and Scully had to admit she kind of liked the attention. It had been a while since she'd noticed anyone looking at her at all. She smiled at him apologetically. "I admit he seems like one right now, but I promise you -- he's actually very good natured, very funny. It's just that this case really bothers him." "Why? I mean it's unpleasant, it's true, but from what I understand, you've both faced a lot worse." Scully shrugged. "Mulder really hates racism, man's inhumanity to man, that kind of thing. He's very noble that way. In many ways." Hansen studied her. "You like him a lot, don't you, Agent Scully?" She gazed back at him evenly. "I admire his work tremendously. And yes, I like him personally too." He nodded. "He's a genius, you know, Hansen. His deductive abilities are staggering, not least of all because he's willing to make intuitive leaps that most people just laugh at but which turn out, with frightening regularity, to be absolutely right. Like a lot of geniuses, though, he's a little quirky." "I've studied his file. Both your files." He glanced at her quickly. "But he's a bit of a maverick, and although I'm fully aware of your success record, a remarkable one when you consider that you chase ghosts and little green men and we're only after human beings, I'm curious to know why the boys in Washington sent in the X-Files division on this one." She decided to ignore the thinly-veiled sarcasm in his tone. Well, on second thought, maybe she wouldn't. "If you're asking me if I think Mulder believes aliens are behind this, Agent Hansen, I'll have to suggest you ask him yourself. Although I wouldn't recommend it -- not in the mood he's in." She smiled sweetly. "If you're asking me what *I* think, I think Mulder expressed an interest in the case and Assistant Director Skinner was only too happy to send someone with his abilities. And mine, I might add." She couldn't help rubbing it in a little. "Mulder's proven himself over the years; now, unlike most of us..." She stared at him pointedly. "...he does pretty much what he wants. And it would seem he wants to do this." It worked. Hansen dropped the subject like a stone. A snazzy little red convertible with the top down screeched to a stop in front of the doors. Scully scowled. Another macho man with a small dick. Then she stared at the car and her jaw dropped. Mulder sat in the driver's seat, waving and grinning like a lunatic. At least he seemed to be in a better mood. Hansen turned and stared at her. "Quirky, huh?" She cleared her throat and stepped through the doors as the July humidity hit her like a blow to the stomach. "Mulder," she hissed at him so Hansen wouldn't hear. "What the hell is this?" She had to admit he looked pretty cute with his sunglasses on, his collar undone, his hair whipped by the sultry sea breeze. "Your tie. Where's your tie?" He gestured vaguely towards the trunk. Hansen was standing next to the car, looking at him mutely. Suddenly Scully realized the thing was a two-seater. A fuck- me car. No question about it. "Relax, Scully. The Bureau won't have to pay a penny over the standard rental rates -- I'll cover the difference. Isn't it a beaut? And look..." He poked at the interior happily. "A stickshift! We can really bomb around in this baby." She laughed. She couldn't help herself. Hansen stared at her as if she'd gone completely off her rocker. "Oh, for God's sake, Hansen; close your mouth before you swallow some flies." She giggled, to Mulder's obvious delight. He was looking at her with a big goofy grin on his face. "Look at how happy he is. You're the one who complained he was a grouch." "A grouch? Me?" He turned to the poor man with a severe expression on his face. "I..." Hansen looked at her pleadingly, shrugging his shoulders. "I thought we were having a private conversation, Agent Scully." "Don't you know, Hansen?" Mulder said evilly. "Scully and I have no secrets. Ain't that right, dollface?" "You got it, bubba. And don't call me dollface." It was too much for Hansen. He threw his hands up in defeat, but to his credit, a ghost of a smile played over his face. Attaboy, Hansen. You're catching on. Mulder grinned at him. "There's obviously no room for me in this thing. I'll let you check in and we can meet for a late dinner; we've got a lot of stuff to cover. Do you know where you're staying?" Mulder looked at Scully and grinned again. "South Beach." "What?" "You heard me, my man. Close to the scene of the crime. One of 'em, anyway. I felt it was my professional duty." "Really." Scully really really wanted not to giggle again. She didn't, but it was a close call. "The White Knight Hotel. Meet us in the lobby in, say, two hours. We have to go over our notes." Mulder waggled his eyebrows at her. Hansen sighed. "This is gonna be a long case, isn't it?" Mulder shrugged. "Depends on the weather." That did it. Scully guffawed and threw her stuff in the trunk. When she looked around again, Hansen was gone. They flew down the highway as palm trees whizzed by on both sides of the road; heat pounded down but the wind made it bearable. Extremely bearable. "Isn't this great, Scully?" Mulder yelled at her over the roar of traffic, the wind and the brutal thump of the radio. She picked strands of her hair out of her mouth. "I feel like a Bond girl in this thing, Mulder." "What?" "I said I feel like a damn Bond girl," she shouted. "Oooo, Scullee. Shaken or stirred?" "Definitely shaken," she muttered. "What?" "Nothing. And I'm through yelling!" He grinned at her. She thought about turning down the music, but the big-kid look on his face made her sigh, lean back and give in to his enjoyment. If this was all it took to snap him out of his foul mood, it felt like a small price to pay. THE WHITE KNIGHT HOTEL SOUTH BEACH, MIAMI, FLORIDA SUNDAY, 6:03 PM The White Knight was a funky little art deco hotel facing the beach on Ocean Drive, just frowzy enough around the edges to appeal to Mulder. The outrageously flamboyant desk clerk batted his eyelashes at him; Mulder smiled back enigmatically. "That's interesting, sweetie. Two rooms?" The clerk looked at him speculatively, running his eyes down his front. "For now." Mulder kept smiling. "In your dreams, Mulder," Scully said sweetly. "Anyway," she continued, looking at the clerk, "from what I've seen of the buff bods out there, he can't possibly compete for anyone's attention." "Scully. I'm wounded to the core." The clerk patted Mulder's hand. "There, there, girl. Don't worry your pretty little head. This is South Beach -- there's someone for everyone around here. Although," he looked at Scully for a moment, "if it's men you're after, *you* may have to pay, sugar." "What?" Mulder snorted. "Promise you'll talk to me first, Scully; I'll charge you half what they're asking." She glared at him. "I beg your pardon?" "Don't take it personally, darling," the clerk cooed. "They're nice boys, but everyone has to make a living." Mulder was still chuckling. She sneered at him. "Bet my boyfriend'll be cuter than yours." "I'll have you know a lot of people find me attractive. Isn't that right, Juan?" "Oh, absolutely. You're a dish, sweetie. After a while, you get bored with all the muscle." "See, Scully? You heard him. I'm a dish and muscle gets boring." She rolled her eyes. "Just give me the key, Juan." Scully hauled her bag towards the elevator. The clerk looked at Mulder and sighed. "I know, I know. You're straight, aren't you?" "Last time I checked." "Well, you know what they say -- all the good ones are either straight or married." Mulder signed the registry and looked up to find Juan's eyes twinkling at him. "I know I'm a nosy bitch, doll, but why aren't you two gorgeous young things sharing a room?" "It's a long story." "Isn't it always, girlfriend." Mulder picked up his bag and grinned. "I'll let you know if my orientation changes while I'm here." "Please *do*." They stopped at their respective doors. "You did bring a swimsuit, didn't you, Scully?" "I always bring a swimsuit, Mulder. You never know." "Is it a bikini?" His voice was low. She looked at him. He was gazing at her under amused half- closed eyelids. "Around you, that would be asking for trouble." "You didn't answer my question." "Yes, it is." She stepped through the door of her room and let it click shut behind her. Her phone rang seconds later. She dumped her computer case on the floor and picked up the receiver, sighing. "What, Mulder?" "Lobby. Fifteen minutes. Be there with a towel and some sunscreen or I'll take Juan with me instead." He hung up. She smiled and unzipped her garment bag. CONTINUED IN PART 3 FLOATERS (PART 3) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net All comments welcome, pro and con. DISCLAIMER IN INTRO Rated "R" for language Mulder was already in the lobby, chatting up Juan, when she came down. He was lounging against the counter, wearing a loose burgundy robe-like thingy she'd never seen before on top of a pair of track shorts. No shirt. Of course he wasn't wearing a shirt. This was a beach and they were going swimming. Why would he have a shirt on? She wished he had a shirt on. Agents Scully and Mulder on the beach. Why did it feel like sheer unadulterated sex to her? It was ridiculous. She'd just never pictured the two of them on a beach with very little clothes on. It felt overwhelmingly, incomprehensibly intimate. By the time she managed to look up, she almost choked at the expression on his face. He was still leaning against the counter, but his eyes were wide and he looked... well, there was no other word for it. He looked shocked. Hell, he looked downright terrified. Scully peered at him. God. He was actually blushing. Blushing! They were like a couple of 15-year-olds on a first date. Not a date. Christ. A swim. They were going for a swim, like two reasonable adults. Although she had to admit she'd kind of known her outfit would get his attention. A blue bikini, the same colour as her eyes, quite revealing, actually; she'd had it for years but hadn't had many opportunities to wear it. And a white mesh robe that came to the middle of her thighs and didn't hide much of anything at all. Oh. And sandals. She didn't think Mulder had noticed the sandals. She watched him swallow convulsively for a while. It was really quite funny, if she could just see it that way instead of giving in to the urge to run out of the room screaming. "Well? Will this do, Mr. Bond?" "Uh..." "Mulder? I see your lips move but I can't hear anything. And look at my eyes when I'm talking to you, please." "Scully." It was more of a gasp than a legal-sized word. "Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?" "No, no." He cleared his throat. "I'm fine. Uh, you look..." "Yes?" "...uh, very..." "Yes?" His eyes bounced skittishly over her as if he didn't quite know where to put them. "...nice." "That's nice." "No. Really. I mean it. Very..." "Nice." "Yes." She smiled a little triumphantly. This wasn't so bad. For one thing, it would serve him right for all the years he'd flirted shamelessly with her. "So. Should we go, Mulder, or do you think we should stand here and entertain Juan for another hour?" It was true. The little clerk was laughing his head off. Mulder glared at him. "You don't understand. I've never seen her like this." That only made him laugh harder. "Oh, sugar," he gasped through tears. "No wonder these modern marriages don't last." Mulder growled at him. "Come on, Scully. I need to cool down." "I'll bet." The clerk's words were wedged between machine- gun giggles. "And, oh God... why do you call each by your last names anyway?" "It's a long story." "Yes. Well, you seem to have a lot of those. God, you know, in a place like this, I never thought I'd meet people stranger than we are." He started laughing again. "Later for you, Juan." "Oh, dear. Promises, promises." They walked towards the beach. Mulder was still speechless. God. He hadn't expected this. He didn't know what he'd been expecting exactly, but he'd thought he could handle it. Wrong again, asshole. Jesus. She was hot. He'd actually forgotten how... well-endowed she was relative to her size. She always wore those modest jackets and loose blouses that hid everything. And that stomach. Holy Christ. It was the kind of stomach that made you want to roll around on the ground and howl in worship to ancient pagan gods. So curvy, so luscious for such a little woman. And while they were on the topic, how could anyone that short have such perfect legs? Meanwhile, he couldn't even bear to think about her butt. Mulder moaned silently. Fishing. Think about fishing, Mulder. Bowling. Root canals. Frohike would be dead of a heart attack by now. At least his own was still beating. Rapidly. This was Scully. His partner. His friend. But mainly his partner. Well, his friend too; he cared for her more than he did anyone, frankly, but then he didn't care much for most people and it was the partner part that ultimately mattered. He liked working with Scully. She understood him and accepted his eccentric methods, at least to a point. Unlike virtually everyone he'd ever worked with, she actually seemed to like him. And she was smart, very smart. It was so hard to find smart people to work with. He didn't want to work with anyone else. And he didn't want to do anything to jeopardize that. Did he? She'd never shown any more interest in him than in her own brothers. She saw him as a brother. Didn't she? What about him? Well, there was nothing in the way he was feeling right now that he could describe as brotherly affection, unless he was a really sick bastard. Men were looking at her as they walked, sending an irrational mixture of jealousy and pride through him. A few looked at him too, but that was primarily flattering. Some women also looked at her, which just made him shiver. "You know, Mulder..." He yelped and hopped to the side. "Mulder?" "Sorry. I'm sorry," he mumbled. "You startled me." "I was just going to say that you've seen me like this before, remember? That first case with the mosquito bites?" She shook her head. "I still can't believe I did that." "You were wearing more material than you are now, Scully." he said tersely. "Yes, but it was underwear. Isn't that worse, at least technically?" "I didn't know you then. It didn't feel as... personal." "I see." "Scully, look. It's not a problem. Think of it as the way you feel the first time you find your sister's bra hanging in the bathroom. Well, maybe not you. Your brothers." "You're saying you see me as a sister." "I don't know what I'm saying, Scully. I'm saying I wanna go for a swim." He was wearing Speedos under his shorts, but he didn't trust himself enough to strip down. He threw his robe on the sand, smiled at her shakily and ran towards the surf. "You coming?" he called back from the water's edge. "In a minute." She spread out their towels and squinted up at the sun. It was after 6:30 but the sun still beat down heartlessly, throbbing across her skin like a backbeat. Even with 35 SPF sunscreen, her complexion wouldn't forgive a whole lot of this. She watched Mulder as he dived in, his body cutting through a wave like a knife. Then she sat for a while and tried to remember when all of this had started getting confusing. THE ALHAMBRA DINING ROOM SOUTH BEACH, MIAMI, FLORIDA SUNDAY, 9:10 PM Hansen sifted through papers and files. They were sitting in a corner booth, picking at indifferent food, although the Chardonnay was chilled to perfection. Mulder didn't care. He liked bad food. And Scully never ate much. It worried him sometimes; she'd lost quite a bit of weight recently. What he didn't like was the way Hansen kept looking at her. It was irrational, he knew that, but it made him crazy. What made him even crazier was that Scully seemed to be enjoying it. She was actually flirting with the bastard. Okay. He wasn't a bastard. He was a nice man. But she was flirting with him and it was all he could do to stop himself from decking the guy. Like some fucking territorial Fred Flintstone. What right did he have to be territorial anyway? He thought back. Had Scully ever flirted with him? Of course she had. They both did it all the time. He remembered the time her lips had brushed against his and shivered. So soft, as soft as they looked. Flirting was part of their schtick. Wasn't it? He hated working with other agents. They always treated him like a dangerous madman. And they always paid too much attention to Scully. *That* kind of attention. Christ. Mulder tried to focus on what Hansen was saying. "...so even though this also looked at first like the indirect result of white supremacist propaganda, there's just no evidence that Mrs. Holliberry was connected in any way with radical groups. I mean, look at her." Mulder looked at the picture. Holliberry. He scurried frantically through his memory banks. The woman who'd locked three little Hispanic kids in her apartment closet for two days without food or water. Finally, their weakened cries had alerted a neighbour when Holliberry had stepped out for catfood. She looked like a benevolent granny you'd find selling cookies at a bake sale. Right. "She's older than the others." "Marginally. I think she looks older than she is." Hansen flipped through the file. "She's 65." Mulder looked at Scully, who was tapping at a salad with her fork. "Try to eat something." She stared at him incredulously. "Is that an order, sir?" He shrugged. "You don't eat enough." "You don't sleep enough, Mulder. Besides, the food sucks." Hansen, who'd been following their little exchange with quiet fascination, suddenly laughed. "It does at that. Although Mulder here doesn't seem to have much of a problem with it." "Are you implying I have no taste, Hansen?" It came out sharper than he'd intended. Now they were both staring at him. He sighed. "I'm sorry, Hansen. Really, I am. You must think I'm a total jerk." "No. He thinks you're a grouch. I'm beginning to see his point." "Yeah, well, maybe I am these days. Believe me, I'm trying to fight it. There's something about this case, though..." He shook his head. "Something about it makes me uneasy. Like we're only seeing the tip of the iceberg. I don't know what it is. Some commonality we're missing." Hansen nodded, still wary. "The spots. Whatchamacallem -- floaters." "You have to admit it's a little strange that everyone who was taken in claimed to have the same problem. Scully here will tell you it's not that common a diagnosis, at least at this level of severity." "I agree in principle. I've studied your methods. Very interesting." Well, that was a switch. Most people would be coughing up a lung laughing by now. "What you do, Mulder, reminds me of Sherlock Holmes's aphorism, you know? Eliminate the impossible; whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth." Mulder smiled shyly. Scully held her breath. God. He was brilliant at what he did and he hardly ever got any recognition for it. It made him heartbreakingly susceptible to flattery, however sincere it might be. As it happened, she believed Hansen was being sincere. But maybe he was also trying to butter Mulder up a little, if only to make him less hostile. "On the other hand, it seems to me," Hansen continued, "that what you often do is apply a corollary of that: find a commonality, regardless of how out-there and negligible it may seem, how negligible it may actually be, and insist that it's the root of the problem. Then no one can prove you wrong. On the other hand, it's almost impossible to prove you right either." She froze. Jesus. What the hell was he doing? Mulder was still smiling, but Scully knew him well enough to know it had turned dangerous. "Hansen..." "Actually," Mulder interrupted her mildly, "that's very interesting." Uh-oh. "Although I'd have to say in my defense that the difference between me and many other investigators I've worked with, Hansen, is that I, or rather we, Scully and I, because we're kindred spirits in this, don't insist on skewing the facts to fit the theory. We'll drop any hypothesis, you understand me, any at all..." He was leaning towards the other agent now in that disconcerting way he had of invading other people's space completely; Hansen was trying to back away but there was nowhere to go. "...if it becomes clear that it no longer applies. But I will not, and you should probably memorize this, Hansen, I will never capitulate to the expectations of little minds which can't begin to cut through the bullshit and face the facts as they are, minds that only want the thing comfortably solved, neatly packaged and filed away fuss-free in a bottom drawer as fast as possible, regardless of whether or not the solution they come up with has anything to do with the truth. Is that perfectly clear?" The other agent nodded, entranced. Mulder leaned back and folded his napkin. "Oops. Nature calls. Back in a flash." He obviously wasn't interested in listening to a rebuttal. She watched his back as it moved through the crowd. His walk was as liquid and relaxed as ever, but she could tell how tense his shoulders were. Hansen looked paralyzed. He was probably trying to work through what Mulder had just said. Although she was fairly certain he'd already figured out that it wasn't especially complimentary. "Christ, Scully." He turned to her, a little wild-eyed. "You know, Hansen, I have no idea why you decided to do that." "Give me a break, for God's sake. He asked for it. How can you put up with that much arrogance?" "I don't think he's arrogant at all." "Jesus, are you blind? The guy's been snapping my head off since he got here like I'm some kind of ignorant asshole." That was possibly true. "Look, Hansen. I'll explain this once. Everywhere Mulder goes, he's faced with derision and contempt from his peers. Old Spooky Mulder, the crazy wunderkind in his basement office. Agents laugh at him to his face; do you have any idea what that must be like? And meanwhile they all come to him when they can't figure out what's going on. They use him, pick his brain, take what they want and then mock what's left. And within minutes, they've all conveniently forgotten how it was Mulder who pointed them in the right direction." Incredibly, she felt tears of indignation sting her eyes. "But our bosses aren't laughing, Hansen. They take him very seriously. They may not always like what he's doing, but make no mistake -- they don't dismiss anything he says, and you'd be making a very serious error in judgement if you did. He makes me crazy too, sometimes, but I'll tell you this: I learned more working three months with Mulder than I did during two years at Quantico. Thanks to him, I've become a damn good agent. In exchange, I've had to live with the jeers of my co- workers for four years now, by extension, because I work with him. And quite frankly, I don't give a damn. I probably care a whole lot less than he does." He looked at her. "Lemme just ask you this, Scully. Are the two of you... you know, involved?" "Apart from the fact that it's none of your business, I don't think I need to point out that Bureau regulations are strict on the subject." He shrugged. "Regulations..." "If you want to know whether I defend him because I'm sleeping with him, the answer is no. As hard as it may be to believe, I'm perfectly capable of having an opinion without having it fucked into me." He squirmed. "I didn't mean that at all..." She waved a hand tiredly. She could see Mulder weaving his way back to the table. "The truth is, Hansen, I really don't care what you mean. Let's just call it a night and meet tomorrow at the office." "Scully..." Mulder arrived, grinning. "My ears are burning, guys." She was sure Hansen thought he was a complete schizophrenic. She knew better. Telling people off always put him in a good mood. "We were just saying goodnight, Mulder." "Really? But we were having such a good time." Mulder smiled at her. She'd definitely cooled on handsome Agent Hansen. My, my -- the evening was getting better all the time. Hansen sighed. "Sorry if I offended you, Mulder. The truth is, I really do admire your work. I just question some of your techniques." "You and everyone else. Don't worry about it, Hansen. It's almost impossible to offend me anymore. In fact, at this point I'm not sure what I'd do with a compliment if I got one." Scully stared at him suspiciously. He sounded positively chipper. "Just get some sleep, Hansen," he said as he handed Scully her purse. "You're gonna need it." CONTINUED IN PART 4 FLOATERS (PART 4) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net All comments welcome, pro and con. DISCLAIMER IN INTRO Rated "R" for language. The morning rush hour was so bad that they were literally stuck motionless on the highway into Miami for almost 40 minutes. The sun beat down. Scully sweat as delicately as she could and applied sunscreen compulsively. On the bright side, they could hear each other without screaming. Mulder looked at her with alarm. "You want me to put the top up, Scully? You're gonna slide out of that seat if you keep greasing yourself up like that." She gazed at him evenly. "Do you know how to put the top up, Mulder?" He shrugged. "How hard can it be?" She sighed. "Do you have any idea, any at all, how to do it?" "No." Scully shook her head. "Didn't the guy explain it to you when you rented it?" Mulder squinted out into the interminable line of traffic. "He must have. I seem to remember him gesticulating wildly and pointing to it at one point, but I kept glazing over." "God. You're more of a woman than I am." "That's sexist, Scully. Are you saying women are incapable of listening to technical instructions?" "No, I'm saying *you* are. The fact that you're willing to admit it makes you more of a woman than I am." He grinned at her. "You know, Scully, you never used to be this amusing." "Consider the material I'm getting now, Mulder. With you as inspiration, I could probably make a fortune on the stand-up circuit." "Well, be careful. Some famous comedienne made her husband the butt of her jokes for years until he killed himself." "I'll keep that in mind if I ever get really sick of you." "I hope you never do, Scully." She looked at him. His eyes were hidden behind his shades, but there was no mistaking the seriousness. "Uh, Mulder..." She shifted in her seat. "Yeah?" "Last night Hansen asked me if we were involved." "That's odd. You'd think he'd know it if the two of you were involved." "Idiot." "So what did you say?" "What do you think I said, for God's sake? I said it wasn't any of his damn business." "Oooo. You go, girl." "You have to stop hanging out with Juan, Mulder." "Why? I like him." "He likes you too." "There you go. A relationship made in heaven." "But I also quoted regulations at him." "At Juan? God. You must've terrified him." She laughed despite herself. "Mulder, stop it." "What regulations?" "About fraternization between partners." "Since you're not my brother, does that mean we can do what we want?" "You know, sometimes it's so hard to have a conversation with you, Mulder." "Did he get the point?" "I'm sure he got the point, Mulder, because I rubbed it into his face a couple of times. Something about how I didn't have to sleep with you to defend you." There was a pause. "You defended me, Scully?" "I spend my life defending you, Mulder." "You don't have to. I can fight my own battles." His tone was curt. Scully looked at him. "Let me remind you that as your partner, Mulder, other people's comments reflect on me too. I'm defending both of us when I do it." He said nothing for a moment. "If you slept with me, would you defend me anyway?" "Mulder..." "Or you could sleep with me and then just not defend me." She laughed again, a little nervously. "Either one works for me, Scully." He was smiling, but the seriousness hadn't left his face. Suddenly, she wanted desperately to change the subject. "Well, I realized after the fact that he was probably only asking because he's interested in me." "I think it's fairly obvious he's interested in you, Scully." "Really?" "Nothing subtle about it, I'm afraid." He paused for a heartbeat. "Or about your interest in him." She said nothing. "You are interested in him, aren't you?" "Less than I was." Mulder exhaled. Good. Less was good. But less wasn't "not at all," either. He'd had time to think about it. As he'd writhed all night in the throes of imaginary passion, the only face he'd seen, the only body, was hers. And when he awoke to find himself covered in the chilly stickiness of his own seed, he'd thought, Mulder, my boy, there's something here you're not dealing with. He was hiding behind the partnership thing because it was the only thing he knew and he didn't want to lose it. But who knew what else he might be sacrificing in the process? The real problem, he knew, was that he didn't know how she felt about him at all. All the profound moments they'd shared, all the mild flirtations, could be nothing more than manifestations of a genuine love between two friends, at least on her part. He'd had platonic friendships with women before. They were the only real friendships he'd had because he didn't particularly like hanging around other men. Part of the problem with men is that he understood their motivations better than women did because he shared them, and that only made them even more suspect. There'd been one friendship in particular, at Oxford, with a Canadian exchange student; it had been the most important non-sexual relationship in his life until he'd met Scully. They'd both fallen in and out of love with other people and it had made no difference whatsoever in the way they felt towards each other. In fact, they'd confided their relationship woes to each other with an almost hypnotic regularity. On the other hand, the thought of Scully fucking around with anyone made him want to buy an assault weapon. This, he thought wryly, was probably a dead giveaway But first he had to know how she felt, and the only thing he had to go on was the evidence of her own jealousy when he showed interest in other women. He wasn't sure she got it yet, though. Hell, he wasn't even absolutely sure what it meant. Whatever the case might be, he couldn't interfere with what she might need, even if it turned out it wasn't him at all. He owed her this much, at the very least. She'd already lost too much because of him. "Hansen seems like a nice enough guy," he said tentatively. "Bright, well-spoken, good-looking." Hypocrite, his mind screamed at him. He told his mind to fuck right off. "Yeah. And you know, he's been very gracious considering how we've treated him like shit since we got off the plane." "What do you mean?" "Oh, come on, Mulder. If you weren't snapping at him, I was handing out interminable lectures about how no one but the two of us knows anything at all. I mean, the poor bastard. We must come across as a great pair of primadonnas." "Primadonnas? Us?" He looked genuinely astonished. "You know, I think we've become so defensive, so quick to think we're going to be dismissed or ridiculed, that we lash out even before anyone says anything." A car horn made them both jump. The traffic was beginning to move sluggishly again. Mulder put the car into low gear. She was making an interesting point, much as he hated to admit it. "I say we give the poor guy a break, Mulder." He glanced at her and smiled faintly. "Fair enough. And then what?" "And then we'll see what happens." He started to weave his way through the lanes as he tried desperately to interpret what she'd meant by that. DADE COUNTY FBI OFFICES MIAMI, FLORIDA MONDAY, 9:22 AM "Now remember, Mulder," Scully said as they pushed through the glass doors to the Intercultural Affairs division, "make nice." Hansen was waiting for them in a conference room, along with two other agents, a man and a woman. He rose and put out his hand. Mulder shook it as warmly as he could. He hated chronic handshakers. "Agent Scully, Agent Mulder, Agent Carla Stein, Agent Anthony Piccaro." Whew, Mulder thought. Such a short sentence, so many agents in it. And more handshakes. Piccaro was all smiles. "So they sent down the big boys, uh, and ladies, Agent Scully, from Washington, huh? Wassamatta, they think we can't handle this?" Mulder smiled back. He looked over at Scully, who smiled at him, although there was a clear warning in her eyes. He looked around. Everyone was smiling. God. Just like Barney. If he waited, he was sure they'd all burst into a song about friendship and how veiled hostility didn't necessarily mean a thing. "Well, Piccaro, I'm sure Hansen's already pointed out that we're anything but big in ol' DC, stuck as we are in the basement and all. Maybe they don't see it as a high priority problem..." His last word ended in a muffled yelp as Scully's very pointed heel landed squarely on a bony part of his foot. "Sorry. Gas." They were still smiling, if not as widely. Hansen was already running a hand through his hair. "I think what Agent Mulder's trying to say," Scully began calmly "is that neither of us wants to interfere with your work here. Obviously, Mulder's preliminary ideas on this case were deemed sufficiently relevant to prompt our superiors..." she caressed the word for a while "...to send us down on the off- chance you could benefit from our help." God, thought Mulder. She always sounded like she'd swallowed a thesaurus when she went into lecture mode. Hansen laughed. "Very diplomatically put, Scully. I think we all agree the important thing here is solving this case, although it's increasingly our opinion that we may be looking at a series of unrelated events. I know it was Mulder's preliminary report that led to all these incidents being officially lumped together, but unless we can get firm evidence..." He threw a friendly glance at Mulder. "...that there's a connection between these cases, we'll be forced to officially split them up again and approach them individually. Quite frankly, and this may surprise you, Mulder, I hope we don't have to; we're up to more than 50 distinct incidents, and you can imagine the paperwork nightmare that would cause." Mulder chuckled politely. "What I find fascinating, if you don't mind my saying so, Mulder," Piccaro said, "is that you wrote a report that established the parameters of this case from your Washington basement without so much as a how-d'ya-do in our direction." Stein suddenly poked Piccaro in the arm. "Oh, shut up, for Christ's sake. They're just doing their job. This is serious stuff, you dumb Wop. We have to stop it and personally, I don't care how many feds it takes to do it." Mulder's smile was sincere this time. He looked at her. Lanky and blond. Quite lovely. No ring, although that didn't prove anything. He'd noticed her right away, of course, but this attitude of hers -- an added bonus. His eyes swivelled and met Scully's. She was gazing at him frostily. Mercy. It was happening again. He wondered if she even knew she did that whenever she caught him looking at an other woman. Well, well, well. Maybe it was time she found out. He turned back to Stein, still smiling. She was smiling right back. "Awright, awright. No hard feelings, Mulder," Piccaro grumbled. "Sure. Fine. Whatever." Then he moved his foot away from Scully as fast as he could. CONTINUED IN PART 5 FLOATERS (PART 5) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@ All comments welcome, pro and con. DISCLAIMER IN INTRO Rated "R" for language. BETH CHALAI LUBOVITCH COMMUNITY MIAMI, FLORIDA MONDAY, 2:13 PM While Piccaro and Stein tried to bring some order to the chaos of case files, Hansen took the others on a tour of locales where the various incidents had taken place. These were myriad and diverse, and Mulder had to admit it was difficult to rationalize a link between them all. Except for the floaters. Fresh graffiti adorned one of the city's few Chassidic synagogues. "Jews eat babies"; "Take your money and run"; and swastikas, of course. Mulder gazed at the graffiti as they drove by. "Isn't it funny how the same people who claim that the Holocaust never happened paint the Third Reich's most recognizable symbol all over the place?" He rested his hands on Scully's headrest from the backseat and lay his chin on them, looking down at her red head. To his amazement, she turned to him and ran a quick hand down his cheek. "It's appalling, Mulder. But it's only a tiny minority." "That's what a lot of Germans thought in 1930, Scully. A tiny minority can do a lot of damage." Hansen glanced at them. "Come on, Mulder. A few kooks with spray cans, that's what we're talking about here. Besides, it wouldn't happen if the ultra-orthodox Jews tried to assimilate into American society a little." Mulder felt Scully tense but he was too shocked to look at her. "What are you saying, Hansen? That they deserve what's going on here?" "Of course not. For Christ's sake. Stop jumping down my throat. I should've known you wouldn't be able to hear this." Scully's voice was dangerously calm. "Because he's Jewish, you mean." Hansen shrugged. "Look. I'm with Intercultural Affairs. That means my job is to ensure smooth relationships between this county's many ethnic groups. But this is the U.S.A., Mulder. Remember? The melting pot concept? We welcome immigrants here, but the idea is they're supposed to adapt, to become Americans first. I'm not talking about Jewish people like you. You're as American as I am. But these guys bought up large tracts of property, they don't talk to anyone except each other, they don't welcome other people into their community. They live like they're still out on the Russian steppes, for God's sake, and then they're surprised when locals resent them." Mulder was speechless. Scully wasn't. "I can't believe I'm hearing this." "Why am I not surprised, Scully? It's real easy for you big- shot DC types to come down here and judge us, isn't it? You don't know what it's like to try to keep the peace in a place where there's hundreds of separate groups of people who all want to kill each other. This is the real world, Scully; we don't have the luxury of indulging in bleeding-heart liberalism." This was getting out of hand. Besides, the real horror was that Hansen's words reflected the ideology of any number of high-ranking government officials across the country. The second biggest horror was that in a twisted way, he was reacting to a very real problem, and Mulder had little doubt that his work was frustrating to the extreme. "Please," said Mulder. "Both of you. Let's drop this. You don't agree with some of my methods, Hansen, and I don't agree with some of views. That doesn't mean you're not entitled to have them. Let's just stay focused." Scully looked at him incredulously. Hansen nodded. "You're absolutely right, Mulder. We all want the same thing here." "I'm beginning to wonder," Scully muttered. Mulder snaked a hand around the seat on the passenger door's side and squeezed her arm. He felt her fingers brush his. Well, one thing was certain. It looked like Handsome Hansen wouldn't be parking his slippers under Scully's bed anytime soon. As uneasy as the Miami agent's words made him, Mulder couldn't quite smother a gleeful smile as he leaned back into the seat. DADE COUNTY JAIL NO. 2385 MIAMI, FLORIDA MONDAY, 4:20 PM Hansen had arranged to have them meet with Jimmy Bains, the janitor responsible for Saturday's airport carnage. "He's being held here until his arraignment," Hansen said as they entered the holding facility. "Of course, we've already questioned him thoroughly, but I thought you'd find it interesting to hear one of these guys firsthand. I've also set up a few other interviews for tomorrow, in case you feel it's important, but you'll find their stories are all more or less the same." Mulder had to admit the agent was being wonderfully cooperative. Bains was already seated at the table when they entered the room, his cuffed hands folded in front of him. He was a slight, nondescript man, his greasy grey hair receding in lines from his forehead. He looked suspicious and bitter, but judging from the way his expression had settled into ridges on his face, the emotions weren't new to him. Mulder fought down his desire to punch the man right in the middle of his sour puss. Scully nodded at the guard, who melted away quietly through the door, closing it behind him. "Mr. Bains," Hansen began, "you remember me. These are two agents from FBI headquarters. They'd like to ask you a few questions." Bains shrugged. "Fucked if I know what more I can tell ya." Mulder sat and leaned on the table. Motherfucker. I hope you burn in hell. He smiled at him. "How are you feeling, sir?" Bains stared at him. "What are ya, a fucking shrink?" "I'm a psychologist." "Well, you can take your high-falutin' shit and stick it up your ass where it belongs. I know my rights. I don't hafta say nothin' until the trial." "Watch your mouth, Bains," Hansen said evenly, "you ain't in any position to play high n' holy. If you don't want your ass kicked, answer the man." Mulder turned to Hansen. Impressive. He'd subtly lowered his tone to the prisoner's level. It was vaguely condescending, but Mulder had to admit, reluctantly, that Hansen probably stood a better chance of reaching him this way. Threats and insults. Mulder had used the tactic before, but it always made his stomach crawl. In this case, though, he could probably learn to live with it. Bains squinted at Hansen as though he were trying to decide whether or not to call his bluff. He turned back to Mulder. "What is it you was askin'?" "I asked you how you feel," Mulder repeated steadily. "How the fuck do you think I feel? I'm in fucking jail, ain't I? And it don't look like I'll ever be gettin' out." "Do you understand why you're in jail?" Bains snorted derisively. "Of course I fuckin' understand. You think I'm a retard? I rid the world of four more niggers before they could breed. They should give me a fuckin' medal." Mulder's shoulders knotted. Suddenly, he could feel Scully right behind him. He forced himself to relax. "You don't feel bad at all about what you've done?" Bains suddenly looked even more suspicious. "I don't gotta answer that. Right?" He looked up at Hansen. "What you just said before made it pretty clear you don't give a fuck, buddy." "So why's he askin' me?" Mulder slammed a fist on the table. Bains jumped and stared at him. He rose and grabbed the older man's lapels, dragging him towards him over the table. "Mulder..." "Look, asshole. I'm trying to figure out if you had any idea what you were doing when you shot those four kids. I'm trying to understand why you did it. Did they do anything to you? Did they endanger you in any way? Did you do it to protect yourself? Because I'm having a hard time accepting that you blew them away just because they were black." Bains actually looked a little frightened. Mulder's mouth was inches from his face. "Whaddya mean? I don't understand what he means." He looked pleadingly at Hansen. Mulder shook him. "You shot them because they were black?" Bains tried unsuccessfully to shrug. "Yeah. I hate the fuckers." Mulder shoved him back into his chair and sat down himself. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Christ. It was so simple. He hated the fuckers so he shot them. Of course. "What about the spots you keep seeing, Bains?" "Yeah. They're enough to make you fuckin' crazy." "Agent Scully is a medical doctor. She's going to ask you some questions about them." He sneered at Scully. "Girl doctor. What the fuck's wrong with the world, anyway? You should be at home takin' care of your husband. It ain't like you ain't pretty enough to have one." He licked his lips, leering. Mulder leaned over and pushed Bains against his seat. "Shut up or I'll rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat. If I can find them." "Hey. Hey, that's harassment, ain't it?" He looked at Hansen. Mulder slapped him. Not hard. "Don't look at him. Look at me. I'm talking to you." It worked. Bains sat in stunned silence for a moment. "I know my rights," he muttered shakily. "You can't do this. I ain't had my trial yet." "You've already confessed," Mulder said silkenly. "The trial is just a formality to establish whether you should get life or death, don't you get it yet? You already belong to the government. You already belong to me. I can do whatever I want with you." Not strictly true, but it was having the desired effect. "Now I want you to sit there and answer Agent Scully's questions. I want you to show her the same respect you'd show your mama. Is that clear?" "Yeah." Mulder walked over to the wall and leaned against it. CONTINUED IN PART 6 FLOATERS (PART 6) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@ All comments welcome, pro and con. DISCLAIMER IN INTRO Rated "R" for language. Scully didn't sit down as she started firing off questions in rapid succession. Her eyes never left Bains's. "You still see the spots?" "Yeah." "Are they worse than they used to be? Better? The same?" "Worse. They keep gettin' fu--... uh, worse." Mulder smiled. "What do they look like?" "Little black spots floatin' around. A lot of 'em." "Did you drink excessively or take drugs before your incarceration?" He shrugged, suddenly nervous. "What's excessive?" "Depends. How much were you drinking?" "I dunno. Six beers a day, maybe." "Did you see a doctor about the spots?" "Nah. Can't afford it. Anyway..." "Anyway what?" "Nuthin'." "You say the spots make you crazy?" "I said they're enough to make ya crazy." "Do you think they succeeded?" "Huh?" "Do you think the spots made you kill those boys?" "How could they do that?" He was starting to sound panicked as the questions flew faster. "Do you feel that you've become more hostile since you started seeing the spots, Mr. Bains?" "I've always been pretty hostile, Miss." "Did you ever feel the urge to kill before you started seeing the spots?" "Scully," Hansen interrupted. "I think you're leading the witness." "Let her finish," Mulder snapped. "This isn't a trial." "Please answer the question, Mr. Bains." "I always felt like killin'. I just never done it before." "Would you say there's any chance that the spots in any way influenced your decision to kill those four kids?" "I didn't make no decision either way. I just did it." "Do the spots make it hard for you to think?" He looked at her wildly. "Yeah. It's gotten so I can hardly think at all, so stop askin' so many questions." She turned and looked at Mulder. He nodded. "That's all." Hansen was grim as they headed out towards the car. Scully threw a glance at Mulder. "Is there a problem, Hansen?" The agent shrugged. "I don't think your questioning was fair. You manipulated him." Mulder looked at him. "The guy's already confessed to killing four unarmed teenagers, Hansen. I don't give a damn about his rights." "That doesn't mean he doesn't have any. Besides, what someone says under that kind of duress isn't reliable. Maybe Scully freaked him out so badly that he just said what he thought she wanted to hear." Scully snorted. "Bains isn't smart enough to think that fast, Hansen." Hansen glanced at her. "Maybe. Still, his hick Florida accent doesn't automatically mean he's an idiot. I hate to tell you, but the two of you probably don't have a monopoly on intelligence." That was all he said, but his words had a ring of truth. The next time Mulder caught Scully's eye, he saw uncertainty and a rueful guilt which he suspected reflected his own. CONTINUED IN PART 7 FLOATERS (PART 7) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net All comments welcome, pro and con. DISCLAIMER IN INTRO (With all due apologies to Paramount and the memory of Gene Roddenberry) Rated "R" for language. THE WHITE KNIGHT HOTEL SOUTH BEACH, MIAMI, FLORIDA MONDAY, 6:55 PM Hansen seemed to get over his irritation, possibly because Mulder and Scully did their best to show that they'd heard what he'd said. "Still," Scully said as they took the creaky elevator up to their rooms, "I don't agree with his view that America has the right to act as a Borg-like assimilator of other cultures." Mulder nodded. "But he's right that we may have become a little arrogant. It's all well and good for me to stand up for big ideas and wave my fist around self-righteously, but what's the point of claiming I'm behind the little guy when I can't even understand what he's saying?" They stepped out of the elevator and headed for their rooms. Scully shook her head. "I think Hansen's clouding the issue. Let's not forget the facts here, Mulder. Jimmy Bains has already confessed to the killings. He did it again in front of us several times. You asked him pointblank if he'd killed those kids because they were black. His answer was, quote, 'Yeah, I hate the you- know-whats.' This is a man who's going to get a maximum sentence, if not the death penalty, for expressing these kinds of sentiments." She dug through her purse for her key. "He exhibited no regret, no conscience at all, and even said he deserved a medal for ridding the world of four blacks before they could reproduce. What Hansen's doing is applying a humane argument to a monstrous situation. Sure Bains has rights; nothing we did will do any more harm than he's already done to himself. Did I lead him into saying what I wanted to hear, that the spots have been interfering with his thinking? My cursory medical assessment is that he's confused and damaged, probably by years of alcohol abuse. And I know for a fact the spots aren't helping. I still don't believe he was capable of evading my questions consciously, but you can't extrapolate that to mean I think everyone with an accent is a hick. It's a non-sequitur, Mulder." He gazed at her admiringly. What a mind. Let the Logic Police find a flaw in that one. "I agree with you, Scully. I think you're absolutely right. But that doesn't mean we haven't become a little arrogant." She laughed. "No. I guess it doesn't." Damn. She looked gorgeous, feisty, undaunted. "Based on what I've read of his reports, I also think there's something a little off with Hansen's assessment of this case, Scully, something skewed somehow. At this point, I can't quite put my finger on it. Can we fault him for his views just because they give us the heebiejeebies? Iffy. He shares them with at least half of white America. Do these views mean he's a racist? By my definition, yes; but my definition is, as he'd put it, bleeding-heart liberal to the extreme. Other than that, he's said nothing -- and believe me, Scully, I've been listening -- that would be interpreted as a racist statement by, say, our superiors. If anything, he seems genuinely concerned for the welfare of all kinds of people, including dangerous criminals, apparently, despite his "Love it or Leave It" stance on immigration." "Jimmy Bains isn't an immigrant, Mulder. And he's white." He stared at her. "That's true. That's interesting. What's your point?" She shrugged. "I don't have a point. Not yet." He thought maybe she did. IL FOCCACIO RESTAURANT SOUTH BEACH, MIAMI, FLORIDA MONDAY, 8:22 PM They'd agreed to meet Hansen and Stein at one of the Beach's hottest clubs for a nightcap. "Just to break the ice. Relieve the tension. And it'll give you a chance to experience South Beach at its freakiest best," Hansen had said as he'd dropped them off in front of the hotel. Mulder suspected he knew why he'd suggested it, and he also thought he understood the dynamics of the characters involved. Piccaro was a married man. What he couldn't understand was what universe Hansen inhabited that made it possible for him to believe he still had a snowball's chance in hell of seducing the increasingly standoffish Dr. Scully. Mulder smirked. Obviously the agent was seriously delusional. They'd stopped for a bite along the way. As they strolled along Ocean Drive, the noise from the terrace restaurants was deafening. Drag queens in full regalia glided around with steaming plates of food to the raucous amusement of patrons. Mulder gazed at them in admiration. "You know, I have no idea how they can wear those heels and still function." "Now you know how most women feel, Mulder." "Even if I were a woman I'd never wear them." "You might if you were five-foot-two." He grinned at her. "I don't think so. If I was five-foot-two, I'd revel in my compactness." She snorted. "Sure you would." "Yes, I would. I'd sneak around, run through people's legs and generally be invisible. It would be great. Did you know that most people never look down, Scully? No one would ever see me coming; I'd catch all the bad guys." "My. What a fascinating theory." "Anyway, there's nothing sexier than watching someone your size shoot someone twice your height and three times your weight. You have no idea what it does to me, Scully." She just looked at him. Mulder smiled. "So. Tell me what you feel like eating and we'll find it." She'd shrugged. "I don't care. Anything." "But there's gotta be something you have a hankering for. Salad? Fruit? Burger? Ribs?" Scully stopped walking. "What are you actually saying, Mulder?" Suddenly, he wasn't laughing either. "I figure it's just a question of finding something you like." "Because?" He took a deep breath. "Because, Scully, I never see you eat much anymore." "And you think that means I don't?" "Scully, we spend most of our days and quite a few evenings together. You used to eat. Now you just pick at food." She nodded. "You think I'm anorexic." Jesus. Those eyes. Keptin. The Kleengons are four parsecs and closing. Full phasers, Ensign Chekov. Phaserrrr banks are dead, seerr. Photon torpedoes. Full spread. Vee used the last one an hour ago. So. It's time. Use Scully's eyes. Captain. That is illogical. The galaxy as we know it will cease to exist. For God's sake, Jim. I'm a doctor, not an optometrist! Argh, me pur wee bairns! Me engines canna take the full force of Scully's eyes, sur! Do it, Scotty. But first, beam me the fuck outta here. "I didn't say that, Scully." "You implied it. You implied it last night." Mulder stood, rocking. "I'm just worried about you. You've lost weight." She lowered her eyes. Mulder breathed. The galaxy was safe... at least for the time being. "Mulder." She looked up again but her shields were down. She smiled, just a little. "This is my weight. This was my weight when you met me. I gained weight. This is the weight I'm supposed to be. I eat enough for this weight. Do you understand?" "Okay." "I was eating too much. Now I'm not. Would you like me to forward you the results of my last physical?" "No." She chose some nondescript Italian terrace and Mulder watched as she wolfed down a plate of linguini and clams in a cream sauce. "Happy?" She mumbled through the last mouthful, cream still clinging to her lips. God. There was something so erotic about it. He reached out with his napkin and dabbed her mouth. "Very." She smirked at him and stood. "Excuse me a moment." His heart began to pound. Scully. Don't. Apparently, there was nothing subtle about the expression on his face. She paused, eyes wide, and leaned over the table until he could smell the clams on her breath. "You think I'm going to the bathroom to vomit." It wasn't a question. "Are you, Scully?" A whisper. "Most anorexics aren't bolemics. Make up your mind." Her voice was like silk. "Unless they're forced to eat." She sat down. "You're really something, Mulder." He said nothing. "All right." She nodded, staring out into the street. "All right. I have to pee. I'd like to brush my teeth. But I won't do it. For your sake, Mulder, I'll just hold it in until... well, until I can't." Silence. "And then," she continued, "you can come to the bathroom with me. You can stand over me while I relieve myself. Hell, you can even hand me the damn toilet paper. Will that do?" He shook his head and stared at his plate. "Scully..." "Meanwhile, I think that gives me the right to come over and watch you every night until you *fucking* well go to sleep." He winced. She never used that kind of language. "Scully, I..." "I think that gives me the right to sit in your apartment until you buy a bed. Until you lie down in it. Until you learn how to close your eyes, lose consciousness and rest for at least seven hours a night." "It's..." "And maybe it also gives me the right to make sure you stop inhaling bad food whenever it occurs to you to eat at all, to force you to get a life outside the basement office, and to make sure you stop putting what little life you have in extreme danger every time you turn around." "Okay, okay," he murmured. "Okay what, Mulder? Okay you're gonna butt out, or okay you want me to fuss over you like a harpy?" "Whichever." That had a definite effect. "What?" "Whatever you want. Just stop." "Stop what, Mulder?" He looked up and grabbed her wrist so that she gasped, staring at him. "Just stop nattering at me. I get your point." He breathed, enjoying the danger in the air. "Let me go, Mulder." Her voice was even, almost contemplative. He did. Scully absent-mindedly massaged her wrist. She continued to study him for a moment. "Okay?" "Okay." "Let's go." CONTINUED IN PART 8 FLOATERS (PART 8) DISCLAIMER IN INTRO Rated "R" for language THE PEACOCK BAR SOUTH BEACH, MIAMI, FLORIDA MONDAY, 10:04 PM The pounding rhythm of house greeted them at the door. Hansen had arranged for their names to appear on the VIP list. The bouncer waved them in to a chorus of complaints and jeers from the long lineup they'd bypassed. And this was a Monday. "Honestly, Mulder..." "C'mon, Scully. Go with it." He lay a very tentative hand on her back. She tensed a little but didn't draw away. They snaked their way through a crowd of fabulous beauties lounging around tables. An incredibly tall, incredibly beautiful black woman suddenly appeared in front of them. She gazed at Mulder and smiled sensually, dropping a long finger to his lower lip and patting it gently. "Nice." Mulder gawked. God. He was looking up at her. "Thanks." He threw a glance at Scully, who was staring up at the apparition with open-mouthed awe. Then he gasped as nimble fingers tightened seductively around his balls. Jesus. "Mmm. V-e-r-y nice." Mulder did an odd little backwards dance. "I'd rather you didn't do that in front of my wife." It was almost impossible to hear anything over the throb of the music, but Scully's laughter was unmistakable. Mulder grinned apologetically. "She's really jealous." He could just see the dusting of five-o'clock shadow on the stunning woman's face. She smiled demurely and pulled his face towards her with a finger under his chin. "I understand, sugar. Later?" "Something like that." He wrapped his hand around Scully's arm and squeezed. "We gotta meet some people." He tugged at Scully desperately. Scully batted her eyelashes at him. "Yes," she shouted gleefully. "We're working." "Oh, honey," their new friend purred. "So am I. But it's a Monday and everyone's broke -- don't expect much." And with a last, lingering look at Mulder, she vanished into the crowd. "Stop laughing, Scully." "I can't." He glared at her and gasped as she suddenly grabbed his neck and pulled his head down to her mouth. "You really do seem to be irresistible, Mulder," she whispered in his ear. "Maybe I haven't been paying close enough attention..." He shivered as her breath caressed his earlobe. Jesus Christ Mother of God Scully. He was suddenly painfully erect just as he noticed Hansen and Stein waving frantically from the bar. Great. How absolutely fucking great. All he needed now was for Hansen to think that a drag queen had given him a hard-on. "You go ahead, Scully," he shouted hoarsely as he pushed her towards the bar. "I gotta..." She was still smiling. "You gotta what, Mulder?" "I gotta go to the bathroom." "Really." Her eyes flicked down as he hastily pulled his jacket in front of him. Oh, God. Why had she looked down? Jesus. Was she doing this on *purpose*? Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes danced merrily. "Okay. But don't take too long or I'll get jealous." Oh, man. Oh, Christ. Oh, fuck. Who did she think he was responding to? He tried not to panic. He couldn't for the life of him decide which was worse: Scully thinking he was turned on by a man in a dress, or Scully thinking he was turned on by her. *Fuck.* He stared at her back as she headed for the bar. Mulder made his way shakily back from the toilet. The things he'd seen... He was an open-minded guy, but some of the stuff he'd glimpsed back there were enough to shrivel his problem in a jiffy. The beat thrummed through his chest, and he couldn't help wondering whether all this wasn't interfering with the case at hand. All this. Hansen. Scully in a bikini. When had he started seeing Scully as a sexual being anyway? Wasn't it all a lot less confusing in the old days? Actually, the truth was he'd always seen Scully as a sexual being. It was just that he'd never seen her in a bikini. God. She'd seen him practically nude on more occasions than he cared to remember. Practically nude? Hell. Naked as a jaybird, more like. Of course, he'd always been unconscious at the time. And seeing your partner at death's door couldn't do a whole lot for your libido. He sighed. This was a serious case. It was a case that gnawed at him, that roiled through his gut. Hansen was right, though; as problems go, this one went far deeper than a few apparently random acts of violence. Ultimately it didn't even matter whether the events were related; when all was said and done, they were just the whistle on the kettle. The water was boiling, seething, and that's where the real problem lay. These cases pointed to the fact that the situation was explosive. For what amounted to personal reasons, Mulder wanted to do everything in his power to diffuse the anger and the fear. It was apparent even in this bustling club tonight; patrons danced, laughed, smoked and drank, but there was an unease in the air that was palpable to Mulder. A restlessness and the sweaty, humid smell of terror. Less than a week ago, a bar much like this one had been razed to the ground by a crazy middle-aged woman who'd never been crazy before. Mulder couldn't help wondering how many of the people around him had lost a friend or a loved one that night. He reached the bar to find Hansen screaming in Scully's ear and Stein leaning back against the counter with what could only be described as a come-hither look. He chuckled. It might be fun to play with his partner's head, just a little. Just for making him suffer with Hansen. Just for tormenting him with a blue bikini. Just to see what she would do. He smiled sensually at Stein and came-hithered. The fact that they had to yell at the top of their lungs didn't exactly help set the mood. "So," he shouted. "Come here often?" "You gotta be kidding." She was only a few inches shorter than he was. The funny thing was, he kind of missed stooping. "Okay. What's your sign?" He lay his hands on the bar on either side of her and absolutely did not look at Scully. He could feel her, though. Oh, yes. Lordy. She was positively radiating disapproval. He brought his face a little closer to the tall agent's. She smiled, rather seductively, he thought. "'Exit.' Or at least that's what I tell guys I don't like." He nodded, pursing his lips at her. "Good one. But the funny thing is, I kinda get the feeling you like me." She looked down, still smiling, so that her blond hair cascaded down in front of her face. No doubt about it; Stein was sexy as hell. And Jewish to boot. His parents would be so proud. He had to look at Scully. He just had to. It was killing him. He threw a quick glance at her and almost died laughing. Ooooo, boy. Ooo, ooo, ooo. She was not a happy camper. Nosiree bob. Nuh-uh. No way. Scully stood less than a foot away from him. Hansen was still animatedly bellowing something in her ear, obviously entertaining himself, if no one else, and she had her eyes turned up to full lethal intensity. "So whaddya say, Stein? Wanna dance?" She shrugged. "What the hell, Mulder. It's a club, right?" He took her hand and led her sinuously out onto the dance floor. His hips rolled a little. Just a little. After all, he didn't want to be vulgar. He felt a little bad about using Stein this way and hoped he'd be able to make it up to her somehow. It was for a good cause. A self-serving one, perhaps, but a good one nonetheless. He smiled at her -- God, his jaws were starting to ache -- and pulled her to him, snaking his arms around her back and tucking a hand in her hair as he slowly moved his hips against hers in time with the pounding beat. "No fooling around with you, huh, Mulder?" She purred a little and rubbed up against him. Mulder prayed he wouldn't get hard. That would be going too far. He closed his eyes and started to replay the best moments of a particularly exciting Knicks games he'd caught a few nights ago. "Slam dunk that sucker," he murmured serenely. "What?" "Nothing." That fucking son of a bitch. Scully stared as her partner thrust -- thrust! there was no other word for it -- against the slinky blond agent. Their bodies moved as one, fluid, outrageously sensual. She fought the urge to reach for her gun. And Hansen. He kept yelling at her, something about the loneliness of his position, how much he'd like to meet someone in the same field he could really talk to, yada yada yada. It was all becoming a tedious blur. To make matters worse, he kept pawing at her. Subtly. A hand here, a finger there, brushing against her shoulder, her hair. Christ. All she wanted to do was walk out of there as fast as possible. No. That wasn't altogether true. All she wanted to do was *storm* out of there after stepping over Mulder's bullet- riddled body. Get a grip. Breath. You don't really want to kill him. No, that wasn't true. She really wanted to kill him. The absolute worst part of it all, the part that made her want to scream, was that seeing him move that way was turning her on unbelievably. She'd never seen him move quite like that before, although she'd surmised the potential a long time ago. He was making love to that floozy right there, right in front of everybody on that dance floor. "Well, I must say Mulder and Stein seem to be hitting it off," Hansen leered in her ear. "Shut up." "I'm sorry?" "Just shut up, Hansen." She yelled a little louder than she probably needed to. It worked. He did. He drew back and stared at her. A vicious expression twisted over his features. She started, transfixed. What the hell was that? He nodded, smirking. "I was right. Christ, Scully. You have it bad for him, don't you?" She shook her head. "Hansen..." "Hey. Don't worry, Agent Scully. I know when I'm not wanted. But you'd better get his attention fast; he looks like he's easily distracted." He pushed himself off the bar. "See you in the morning. On time, I hope." Hansen walked towards the door and was swallowed up by the crowd before she could respond. Scully's fists knotted and she could feel her blood thudding through her arms and legs. There was something seriously wrong with that guy. Something dangerous. Mulder. She forced her hands to relax and looked out at the dance floor to find that Mulder had turned both their bodies around until Stein's back faced the bar. He was staring right at her. He was still moving, but his eyes held nothing but her. Her breath caught. Jesus. She could almost hear the audible pop of a lightbulb coming on over her head. He was trying to make her jealous. The bastard was purposely trying to make her jealous. That's what he was doing. Unbelievable. And now she'd pissed Hansen off and who knew what that even meant? Suddenly she realized she was shaking. Mulder said something to Stein and left her standing there, dumbfounded. Seconds later he was steadying Scully against the bar, his hands on her shoulders. "Scully? What is it?" She looked up at him. Her heart wouldn't stop pounding. "Hansen." "What about him? Where'd he go?" "Oh God, Mulder." "Scully?" He lay a finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. His own eyes were a dark mix of fear, outrage and murderous anger. "What did he do to you, Scully?" She shook her head. "Nothing. I... He didn't do anything. But there's something wrong with him, Mulder." "What?" "I don't know. Something... nasty." "What did he do to you, Scully?" He said again, his voice low. He shook her lightly. "Tell me." "I told you. Nothing. He got angry because I wasn't interested, I think." That was all he needed to know. Mulder looked up and around, his jaw muscles jumping. "I'm gonna kill the son of a bitch." "Mulder..." "Where is he?" Stein had joined them and was studying both of them quizzically. "He left. He said he'd see us in the morning." Mulder looked at her, his face still tight with concern. "Let's get the hell out of here." CONTINUED IN PART 9 FLOATERS (PART 9) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net All comments welcome, pro and con. DISCLAIMER IN INTRO *************************************************************** WARNING: Rated "R" for language and disturbing imagery. *************************************************************** (With thanks to Gabrielle Harbowy) THE WHITE KNIGHT HOTEL SOUTH BEACH, MIAMI, FLORIDA MONDAY, 11:54 PM They headed straight to the hotel, Mulder dragging Stein behind them. She went willingly enough, although it was clear from the expression on her face that she wondered what kind of kinkiness they had in mind. "In here," he said, unlocking his door. He strode to the window and lowered the blinds with a clatter. Scully jumped and looked at him. His agitation seemed out of proportion to the gravity of the event. Their colleague shook her head and settled in the room's only chair, stretching out her long legs. She looked like someone who was prepared to wait. Mulder turned to her. "Has Hansen ever exhibited signs of instability?" Stein squinted at him. "How do you mean?" He shrugged. "I don't know. Mood swings. Inexplicable rages. Irrational speech or actions." "We're all guilty of those at times, Mulder. What's your point?" Scully leaned against the dresser, her arms folded against her chest. "I agree with Stein, Mulder. It's true he didn't look particularly sane, but we really don't know him at all. Who can tell what getting jilted will do to a man? It doesn't necessarily mean he's dangerous." Mulder raised his hands and shook his head vehemently. "I know, I know. But it's not only what he just did to you, Scully. I've had a weird feeling about him since the beginning. There's something about the way he talks, the way he is." Stein regarded him coolly. "Scully said you guys don't know him. It's true. From what I understand, neither of you have made his life easy since you got here yesterday." "Is that what he told you?" "He said you were paranoid, arrogant and defensive. But he also made it clear he had a lot of respect for you. And that he understood why you'd developed an attitude." Mulder glanced at Scully and said nothing. The Florida agent studied them both, her eyes drifting from one to another. "It's a powerful thing you have there, the two of you. You don't leave a lot of room for anyone else." She leaned back in the chair and curled her legs around her bottom. "I've seen partners before. Hell, I've had partners I've been close with. It's part of the job; it happens before you know it. You're always checking each other, watching each other's back. Believe me, I get it. But this thing..." She gestured vaguely between the two of them. "...this thing is stronger than anything I've ever seen. You can't tell me you haven't clashed with colleagues before. Christ. You don't make space for anyone else. Maybe it's because you've been isolated from the rest of us for too long. But it doesn't make the two of you easy to work with, and I'm sure Hansen finds it frustrating." Scully looked down, hugging herself. Mulder shuffled. "Yes, well..." Scully cleared her throat. "You may be right. Mulder and I were commenting on it earlier. We've been forced out, ridiculed, slandered, and I think we've adapted." Mulder nodded. "It's also the reason we're so good at what we do, Stein." "I'm sure." She smiled thinly. "But there's a price to pay. You might be pleasantly surprised if you gave other people a chance every once in a while. We're not all assholes, Mulder." Mulder sighed and drove his hands into his pockets, rocking. Shit. She was right. They'd become so fucking antagonistic. So maybe it wasn't their fault; they'd seen enough to realize that a good healthy dose of paranoia was a survival instinct and not necessarily a neurosis. Christ. They'd been shit on so often they'd almost stopped bothering to change their clothes when company called. Here I am. I know I smell -- you've told me so enough times -- but you're the ones who piled it on, so take a big whiff, fuckheads. Scully actually laughed. He looked at her. "You should see your face, Muldoon. You look like a petulant eight-year-old." He tucked in his lower lip and grinned. "That's what you are, Scullery, what am I?" Stein threw her hands up and rose. "Enough already with you two. I'm going home." "You've been very patient, Stein. Thanks." God. He really did feel like a bashful kid. If he had a cap, he'd be wringing it in his hands. The tall agent laughed and patted his cheek. "You're cute, but this room's too small for the three of us." She studied Scully under lowered lids, which made her shift uneasily. "And for Christ's sake, stop denying what's really going on here, both of you. Fuck regulations -- God knows I have. Many times." She grinned, fluttered a few fingers and was gone. Mulder coughed and looked up at Scully under a furrowed brow as the door shut behind Stein. "Guess we're less subtle than we thought, huh?" He couldn't read her expression at all. But he knew what he felt, which was that the air between them was as charged as it had been during the lightning boy case. Hell, he could practically smell the ozone burning. She looked away, then up. "Uh, Mulder..." "Take your time. After four years, what's another two or three?" She smiled at him. Her eyes were warm, grateful... Jesus. Loving? She looked longingly at the door. "I've got to work on the report for a while." "Sure. Of course. Uh, Scully..." "What?" There was a hint of panic in her face. "You gonna be all right?" "How do you mean?" God. She really looked nervous. "Hansen." "Oh. Oh, yeah. I think I must've overreacted. It's just..." "Just what?" "He really looked nuts, Mulder." He nodded. "I mean, I know that Stein's right about this. But he looked like a maniac. I swear to God." "I believe you, Scully." "You're uneasy about it." He touched the blinds, parting them, and stared out at the beach. "I've been uneasy about Hansen since we got here. Nothing Stein said has done anything to change that." There was silence between them. "Look, Mulder..." He turned to her with a faint smile. It was true. He could wait. He'd waited this long. "Goodnight, Scully." She nodded. "I'll be fine." "I know." He smiled again. "You're a tough broad, Scullery." By the time he heard the door's gentle click, he was already looking at the beach again. He rubbed his face with one hand. A run. What he needed was a long run along the beach. A cold shower didn't seem nearly as healthy. He peeled off his jacket with one hand as he rummaged through his luggage for shorts with the other. Scully sat facing her laptop. She'd been typing for about 20 minutes now, but the fact was there wasn't a whole lot to say. She pulled her glasses off her face and rubbed her eyes. All of it boiled down to innuendo and extrapolation. Hell. How did you even begin to analyze a problem as big as this one? Who was responsible? Were the cases even linked? What in God's name did the floaters have to do with it all? Floaters. Scully sat back and stretched. They could be caused by several things. A degradation of the retina, that was true. But there were other possible causes which had nothing to do with the eyes, at least not directly. Pressure on the optic nerve. Migraines. A hormonal imbalance in the pituitary gland. There was no evidence that any of the suspects taken into custody had suffered from migraine headaches, so that probably wasn't a factor. She'd studied medical files on most of the suspects; there were two cases of brain tumours, both in relatively early stages of development. Neither of these tumours were situated in a part of the brain which would normally lead to pressure on the optic nerve. That left hormonal imbalance. And, of course, retinal decay. God. She was tired. Worse. She was titillated. Aroused. Dammit, horny. She shook her head. Mulder. Things were taking an interesting turn. She smiled a little and leaned back. Well. She figured she'd known it would come to this sooner or later. What she wasn't quite sure about was why they'd skirted the issue for as long as they had. The comfort of a friendship, maybe. Habit. Shyness. Protocol. Insecurity? Very possibly. She'd felt the feelings but she hadn't been a hundred percent sure they were shared. Ironic, in retrospect. But the odds were good the same had been true for Mulder. Two blushing school kids reaching out for each other blindly in the night, bodies, hearts and minds layered in denial, in fear, in desperate excuses. And both of them backing off each time at the last possible minute. Because it would complicate things. As if things weren't complicated enough. As if it was actually possible to complicate them further. As if their enemies, such as they were, needed any more ammunition. The two of them were lost already. They'd been lost for a very long time. And the fact that either of them was still alive at all only proved that someone, somewhere, wanted them that way. Scully sighed and placed her glasses on the table. She stood and looked out the window, her fingers parting the blinds in an unconscious echo of Mulder's earlier gesture. She could smell the salt on the air as it drifted in on the muggy, sluggish breeze. The street was quiet now; a couple of late-night revellers staggered home, arms draped loosely around each other, hands roaming, their muffled laughter drifting up with the sweet smell of hibiscus and honeysuckle. She turned off the light and stood for a moment longer. And then she heard the click of a door opening and shutting softly. "Mulder?" She turned. Christ. Not now. It wasn't time. She wasn't ready. He had a copy of her key, but she'd never thought he'd use it like this. Not now. "Mulder?" She reached for the light. And cried out as two hands shoved her so hard that she careened off the wall and fell to the ground, twisting instinctively to land as well as she could. She reached for her gun, her muscles already screaming with pain, just as she felt a body fall on top of hers, its hot breath on her face. She squirmed and turned her face away, flailing wildly, pushing, scratching. "Get off me," she hissed. "Shut the fuck up, you bitch. You've teased me long enough. I know you want this." Her eyes went wide as she recognized the voice. Oh, God. No. Not this. Please. Not him. CONTINUED IN PART 10 FLOATERS (PART 10) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net All comments welcome, pro and con. DISCLAIMER IN INTRO ************************************************************ WARNING: Rated "R" for language and disturbing imagery. ************************************************************ The elevator door clanged behind him as he rifled through his pocket in search of the key. It was after one; long after. He wanted to see her -- desperately. He'd tried to take his mind off her, but it was hopeless. God. He felt himself straining once again, just knowing she was lying there, in her bed, a few doors down the hall. What if he just let himself in? He pondered it. He had a key. She knew he had a key. What if he just let himself in and slid into bed next to her. What would she do? Would she shoot him? Scream rape? Call 911? Report him to their superiors? Or would she open her arms and welcome him in? He shook his head. Christ. It was making him crazy. Scully. Jesus. He knew she wanted him. It was clear, naked in her eyes. The way she looked at him. She wanted him as badly as he wanted her. So what were they waiting for? Enough already. He'd had enough. With a muffled grunt, Mulder found the key and inserted it into the lock, twisting. As he stepped through the door, he heard a crash in the room next to his. Scully... He sprang to the wall, pounding against it. "Scully?" His gun. Where the fuck was his gun? He spun around frantically. Finally he spotted the holster under the bed where he'd shoved it. Mulder swiped at it, almost falling over as he grabbed it and lunged through the door. "Scully!" Her door was locked. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He kicked at the lock once, twice, three times. The door splintered and fell open. Darkness greeted him. "Hands in the air!" His voice was shrill and he strained to see. Christ. Nothing. And then his ears picked up the sound of heavy breathing and... Oh no oh no oh no oh... A whimper. "Hands in the air, you bastard!" He reached for the light desperately, his hand grasping the wall, pawing, hitting it. As the room exploded into light, a blur slammed into him, knocking him breathless as he flew against the corridor wall and sank down. Hansen. The agent's face was twisted in a snarl as he reached for his hip. Mulder tucked his head down and rolled into Scully's room as bullets smashed into the wall where he'd been seconds before. Scully. He pulled himself up and gasped. His shoulder. He stared at his left arm as it hung at an unnatural angle from the rest of him. The bastard had dislocated his shoulder. Thank God for shock. He grit his teeth and snapped his arm back into place without a second thought, a cry escaping him before he could bite down on it. Scully. Mulder circled the bed warily. "Scully?" It was a whisper. Oh, God. She lay on the floor, her legs spread, her hand over her eyes. He stared at her desperately. Her clothes. His eyes roamed along her body. She was still wearing all her clothes. She was still wearing her pantyhose. Her skirt was hiked up around her waist, but he could see her pantyhose and her panties. Intact. Tears sprung to his eyes and he wiped them away angrily. "Scully..." he whispered, kneeling down next to her and wincing as pain lanced through his shoulder. "Scully?" He tugged her skirt down around her gently, smoothing it, before reaching for her. "Scully." He touched her face and flinched as she cried out, her hands pushing against him. "Scully, it's me." He brushed her face with his fingers, moving her hand, grasping it gently in his. "Look at me, Scully." She did, slowly. Her face was streaked with tears. He sucked in a breath. There was no fear in her eyes. None. What he saw was humiliation and... anger. Cold, cold fury. Jesus. Everything in him screamed at him to let her go, to leave her alone, to let her handle this in her own way. Those eyes... No. He wouldn't let go. Not this time. Her eyes bore into his, her hand tightening on his own until he could feel the bones in his fingers grind against each other. He wrapped his good hand around her back and lifted her, drawing her against his chest as his other arm reached around her to pull her close. He ignored the pain in his shoulder. This time, he wouldn't let her hide from him. This time, he wouldn't let her shut him out. It was a lot like holding a two-by-four, Mulder thought distractedly. He held on. And then suddenly, with no warning at all, she softened against him. Her arms reached under his and clasped his back as she moaned against his neck. He rubbed his lips against her hair. "It's okay..." he murmured. She shook her head against him. "No." He rocked her. "Are you okay, Scully?" "No." He drew back in alarm and pushed a strand of hair out of her face. "Did he..." She lowered her head. "No. He didn't have time." She rubbed her face with her hands and took a deep shaky breath. "Dammit, Mulder." She struck his shoulders with her fists. Pain exploded through him, but he shut his eyes. "Dammit!" Another blow. Lights played behind his eyelids. "Dammit!" Blow rained upon blow until all Mulder felt was pain, pain in his shoulder, his arm, his chest, her pain, her frustration, her anger, pain and pain and pain. He sat, head bowed, as her fists hit him again and again. Gradually he realized that she'd slowed and finally stopped, her hands resting on his shoulders. He raised his head and looked at her. Scully was gazing at his face. "I'm hurting you." There was wonder in her voice. "God, Mulder. I'm hurting you?" "My left arm." He rolled it a little. "I think Hansen pulled it out." "Jesus." She was suddenly the efficient Dr. Scully, but there was a tinge of panic to it this time. She pulled his jacket back and prodded at his shoulder so that he gasped. "I put it back in." The words came out through his teeth. "Mulder. Jesus." Her eyes were wild. "Why didn't you say anything?" He shrugged before he remembered and cried out, closing his lips on the sound. "Mulder..." Her hands were on her face, her forehead against his, her lips, her cheeks wet against his. He held her. No. She was holding him. He realized, dazedly, that she was holding him. "Scully. We gotta find him..." He didn't want to let her go, but he felt her nod against him. "We have to go." Her fingers brushed through his hair as she stood. "Are you okay?" Scully looked down at him; her eyes were cold again, but he knew none of the coldness was for him. He nodded. She reached a hand down to him. Mulder smiled. "If I take that, you'll be down here again in a second." She shook her head. "You're impossible, Muldoon." He grinned and propped himself up on the bed with one hand, pushing himself up. Her hands were around him in a second, and he tried to overlook the thrill it gave him. "He's long gone, you know, Mulder." "We'll find him." DALE COUNTY FBI OFFICES MIAMI, FLORIDA TUESDAY, 4:04 AM Stein answered the phone after the twelfth ring. "What the fuck do you want?" Her voice managed to be both terse and sleepy. "Good morning, Stein. How d'you know it was me?" Mulder asked brightly, glancing at Scully. "Up and at 'em, girl." "Mulder? Are you out of your fucking mind?" "We've been looking for Hansen for the last three hours. He attacked Scully." There was a pause. "What?" Mulder was impressed. Suddenly she sounded completely awake, efficient, ready for action. "We're in front of your office. We've been driving around for hours looking for him." "Jesus. Where did you go?" "The clubs. The beach." He rubbed his nose. "Frankly, we don't know where to look." "Did you call the police?" "Not yet. But I will, Stein." He could hear her moving. "I'll stop by his place. Hold off until I get back to you." Mulder was listening to a dial tone. Fifteen minutes later, a car screeched around the corner and skidded to a stop in front of the building. Stein stepped out from the driver's side; the streetlight caught the key card in her hand as Piccaro groaned and yanked himself out through the other door. "He's not at home," she said. "You're sure?" Scully. "I have a key to his place." Piccaro rubbed his hands through his thick black hair as he stumbled over to where they stood. "Mulder. Scully. What the fuck's going on? Uh, sorry." He smiled ruefully at Scully. "Your boss tried to rape me." She stared at him evenly. "So I heard. Are you sure?" Mulder stepped closer to him. "You think she'd make something like that up, Piccaro?" "Mulder. I can handle this." Scully looked up at the agent. "I'm sure, Piccaro. Believe me: a girl can tell when she's being violated." She smiled evenly. "And it case it carries more weight this way, Mulder saw him too." Piccaro shook his head. "Look, I believe you. It just doesn't seem possible, you know?" Scully nodded. "How long have you known him?" "I've worked with Phil for six years. He's a great guy. Gentle as hell. A sweetheart. Christ, I even tried to set him up with my sister. You know what that means to an Italian?" They turned as a buzzer sounded. Stein held the glass door open. She looked tired and she looked grim. "Come on." They walked softly through the darkened hallways. "What makes you think he's here?" Stein whispered to Mulder. "I don't know. I don't know where else he'd go." She nodded. "I'm having a hard time with this, Mulder." "You and me and Scully both." Her teeth glittered in the dark. "He's been a little tense lately, but *this*..." Mulder felt a hand brush his arm. "Mulder." He turned to his partner. "We should split up." Stein stopped. "Piccaro?" A soft expletive filled the air as the other agent bumped up against her. "Jesus. What?" "You and me. We'll take our floor. Maybe he's holed up in his office." "Mulder and I will do the basement." Stein looked at her. "Why the basement?" Scully shrugged. "That's where we always find them." Mulder laughed softly. It was a relief, actually. "She's right, you know." Piccaro rolled his eyes incredulously. "This is the secret to your success?" "Hey. Don't knock it 'til you try it." Stein shook her head. "Pull the fire alarm if you need help. We'll do the same." She pushed open the door to the emergency staircase and disappeared with Piccaro into the darkness. The basement looked like every other FBI basement Scully had ever seen. Something like a cross between a grade school hallway and a hospital morgue. It also had the same dampness and musty smell they'd both become very familiar with in Washington. "Just like home, Scully," Mulder whispered. She shushed him. Hansen was here. She could feel him. She could almost taste his stale breath in her mouth. God. She shook her head. Not now. Not that image, not here, not now. "He's here, Mulder." It was less than a murmur, but she felt him tense beside her as he unhooked his gun from his holster. She'd been holding hers since they'd come down the stairs. They were both wearing sneakers. Their feet slid along the floor, making no noise, but she fretted about the rustle their clothing made in the heavy silence. Scully froze. Jesus. It wasn't their clothes. They were both wearing cotton. She threw herself against Mulder as two shots hit the pipes next to them and flew off with a whine, sparks flying. CONTINUED IN PART 11 FLOATERS (PART 11) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net All comments welcome, pro and con. DISCLAIMER IN INTRO Rated "R" for language. Mulder woomfed as Scully landed on his chest. They rolled against the wall. His shoulder screamed. "So. The Jew boy's here to catch me, huh?" Hansen. "Whatsamatta, Mulder? Missin' a part of your anatomy you'd like to get back?" He was drawling. Mulder coiled against the wall, pushing at Scully. She hissed against him. "Don't, Mulder." The agent stood in front of them. Even from where they lay, they could see the lunatic glitter in his eye. "Awwww. The two a you look so cute lyin' there." "We're armed, Hansen," Scully said tersely. "Yeah, well, as it happens, so am I, darlin'." It was true. The business end of his standard-issue revolver was pointed steadily at Scully's head. And their own guns were down. "You know, I shoulda known bettah than to go for a pope- lovin' chick. My mama always told me y'all were lesbians and freaks." "Hansen..." "Ain't this what you expect from me, Miss Dana? Huh?" He waved the gun at her, his face dark. "Ah'm just a pore southern boy, miss. Y'all know how ignorant we is, doncha? Yor Jew boyfriend knows it, don't he?" The gun wavered and settled on Mulder. "Put it down, Hansen," Mulder said quietly. "We can talk about this." "Oh, yeah. You Jews jest love to talk n' talk, doncha'll? Well ah'm through talkin', ya dickless son of a bitch." The wide smile suddenly drained from his face as he glared at Mulder. "I've had it with you. I've had it with both of you. But I'm gonna tell you what I've done before I send you both to hell." Mulder didn't blink. "It's the perfect crime, you know? And no one knows about it. It's such a drag to do something like this and not tell anyone. I'm just *bursting* with the news," he lisped. "Hear that? I sound just like your little bumfucking friends out there in South Beach." They said nothing. "See, there's a particular hormone that farmers use to fatten cows. It's a bummer, really; you wouldn't believe what it does to people even in small doses. But I'm sure you know all about it, right? You know everything, don't you? Well, one day the lid's gonna blow off this fucker and the Surgeon General's gonna have a fit because the hormone settles in every major organ. For the time being, though, everyone's just snarfing down their burgers." Mulder shifted against Scully. Hansen's gun was suddenly on her. "Move one more inch, Jew boy, and I'll blow her head off. Is that clear?" Mulder nodded slowly. "So," Hansen continued conversationally, "one of the things this little hormone does is create a kind of imbalance in ol' Mr. Pituitary. In some people, that leads to what are called floaters. You know all about floaters, huh, Mulder? Actually, it causes floaters in a lot of people, especially if they're a certain age. Younger people get 'em too. But you were wrong about them, loverboy, as I suspect you are about a lot of things. They're just a symptom." "Let Scully go, Hansen. You like her, remember? You don't want to hurt her." "Awwwwwwwww. A gentleman. A fucking Hebe gentleman. That's so sweet." Scully threw a glance at her partner. Hansen smiled at her tightly. "Does your mother know who you're hanging around with, Miss Dana? Huh?" He laughed. "Maybe I'll let her live, Mulder. Maybe I'll let her live just long enough so I can fuck her. How's that?" Mulder tensed to spring. "Don't," Scully snapped. "You bastard. Don't goad him." "Oh, come on, Scully. You *need* it. You need it bad and Mordecai here obviously can't satisfy you." He leered at her. "Well, betcha I can... dollface." The shot was deafening; Mulder cried out and threw himself in front of her. She pushed against him, her voice weary and muffled. "For God's sake, Mulder. Move." She was alive. Sweet Jesus, she was alive. He turned. Hansen no longer had a face. DALE COUNTY FBI OFFICE MIAMI, FLORIDA TUESDAY, 1:31 PM Allison Brueher, Director of Intercultural Affairs, sat in front of the four agents in the conference room where they'd discussed the case with Hansen just the day before. Mulder and Scully had spent the morning answering questions, filling reports and dozing on hard benches along anonymous Bureau hallways while half a dozen agents ransacked Hansen's apartment. Hansen's case was being treated as an internal affair. No local authorities. "They're keeping it quiet, Scully," he muttered after the second polygraph. "We wouldn't want one of our boys to go down in flames in the media." For a while, it had looked as if Scully was in trouble. Serious trouble. In the end, Mulder's testimony held -- barely. The three polygraph tests probably didn't hurt. They'd both agreed to undergo testing, and they'd both emerged with flying colours. It was clear from the reaction they got that Hansen wasn't the only one to view them with suspicion. But it was the one advantage of an internal investigation. No trial. No lawyers. No chance to clear their name at all, if they'd been found guilty. Mulder knew they would have vanished without a trace, consigned to some dark FBI dungeon, filing endless paperwork. Hell. It sounded like the job they already had. The looks they got said it all: you don't kill a fellow agent, regardless of what he's done. You disarm him, you knock him out, you shoot him in the arm or in the leg, but you don't kill him. The FBI's unwritten golden rule. That... and you don't diddle your partner. Mulder grimaced. The odds were good they weren't going to be the first ones to break the latter. But they might be among the few to break them both. Neither Stein nor Piccaro had said much to them since they'd staggered back up the stairs that morning with the bad news. Scully had said nothing at all. Mulder could feel Stein's eyes on him, but he knew she'd shut the door forever. They were back in the basement -- figuratively and, in a day or two, literally. Alone. The word would spread like wildfire. Mulder and Scully: Guilty of fratricide. And it didn't matter a crap that they'd stopped a dangerous madman. Brueher jotted a few notes and looked up. "As far as we can tell, Hansen was involved with a white supremacist group. We found a Nazi flag hung up in his closet along with other fascist paraphernalia." She coughed. "He left notes, all of them vague, but it would seem that he's been systematically infecting the water supplies in certain areas with powerful hormone derivatives." Scully nodded. "He started telling us about it. Obviously, he knew these hormones could cause floaters." Brueher's voice was just slightly chilly. "He wrote something about the fact that hormonal imbalances, particularly ones serious enough to result in floaters, could also lead to erratic behaviour. Apparently, he believed that in a place as explosive as Miami, all he needed to do was tap into the pent-up anger and resentment of a few racists to cause serious problems." "He wanted to stir up racial unrest," Mulder said tersely. "And he didn't care about any other effect the hormone would have on the population at large." "That seems to be the case," Brueher admitted. "We've begun a systematic analysis of criminal activity in the greater Miami area over the last month. We're still dealing with preliminary findings, but so far it's fairly clear there's been an overall increase." Piccaro snorted. "It figures that no one noticed." Brueher shrugged. "Crime rates rise and fall. The cops blame the heat, the full moon, drugs... what's a few hormones added to that kind of soup?" "What are you doing about the water?" Scully. "City workers started flushing public and private supplies about an hour ago. We may end up with a shortage for a couple of days but we're keeping it quiet to avoid panic. The problem is we don't know what water's been affected." The director knocked papers together and stood. She gazed at both of them. "You stopped it. That's the most important thing." She glanced at Stein and Piccaro, who studiously avoided her eye. "It won't make you popular, you understand, and I'm sorry about that. Believe it or not, Agent Scully, I understand what you did in light of what he put you through, but it's too bad you couldn't find a better solution." Scully said absolutely nothing. Moments later, the two of them were alone. Mulder drove towards South Beach, glancing at his partner every few seconds. She stared straight ahead. He'd put the top up on the car before they'd left. "Scully..." "Mulder. I don't need to talk about this." He bit his cheek. "Well, I do." She looked at him. "I don't think you did anything wrong, Scully." Nothing. "I mean that. The bastard deserved it. Those bloody hypocrites. It's not as if they don't know how many people he killed. He would've killed us both." Her voice was low. "I wish I could say that's why I shot him, Mulder." "I know why you shot him, Scully." They rode in silence for a while. As they turned into South Beach, he draped his good arm around her shoulder without a word and pulled her to him fiercely. She came without a struggle. He brushed his lips against her hair. "No regrets." "None at all." He could tell she meant it. "Does that bother you?" He smiled. "Quite honestly, the only difference is I'd've aimed a lot lower." CONTINUED IN PART 12 Part 12 is the end... Thanks again! DISCLAIMER IN INTRO Note: The bit about the man with the signs on his body really happened. I saw it with my own eyes in South Beach. A fitting end to this story, I think. ******************************************************** This chapter rated NC-17 for graphic sexual descriptions. Not appropriate for younger readers. ******************************************************** THE WHITE KNIGHT HOTEL SOUTH BEACH, MIAMI, FLORIDA TUESDAY, 5:47 PM As Mulder reached out to open the door, he saw a plump white man in his late middle age, unremarkable looking, clean, dressed in beach shorts and a t-shirt, walking slowly along the sidewalk beside them. On his chest and back, linked with string, were two flimsy cardboard signs with handwriting scrawled in black marker. Both signs proclaimed the same message: "The Jews are trying to kill me." For some reason, that did it. "Scully. Look." She turned and read the man's back as he waddled away. She looked back at Mulder, her eyes unreadable. He wasn't sure what his own eyes were saying, but whatever it was, it had an immediate impact on Scully. "Mulder," she murmured, right before she linked her fingers around his neck and leaned against him, her lips against his jaw. Something swelled in chest as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He felt tears welling and he wasn't sure why, but he had a feeling it had something to do with him and something to do with her. The Jews. Who were the Jews? People had been killing Jews by the fistful for thousands of years. Who were these Jews who were doing the killing now? The Elders of Zion? The bankers? The Israelis? Were Israelis Jews? Were all Jews Israelis? That was the horror of racism; it was a house of cards built out of sweeping generalizations, generalizations based on cliches, on myths, on ignorance, until the human beings themselves, those whose only crime was to look different or act different, were conveniently erased, buried under the weight of facile slogans and summarizations, until it actually became possible to wipe out an entire race because it wasn't people who were dying anymore, it was a thing. Racism stripped so- called races of their individual faces, their workaday existence, their participation in the same loves, the same struggles, the same joys, the same heartbreaks that defined the lives of those who wanted to annihilate them. Jesus. The Jews. The Africans. The American Indians. The Armenians. The Tibetans. The Kurds. The Bosnians. Just a few of many. Genocide after genocide in the name of religion, greed and patriotism. All in all, it had been a long, heartless day. Mulder's tears broke, hot and desperate, against Scully's hair, right there, in full view of the tourists strolling Ocean Drive. He didn't make a sound, but he was crying for both of them. Her hands gave way to her arms as she wound them around his neck, her mouth against his ear. "Shhhh. Mulder. It's okay." She didn't give a damn about the few people who stopped and stared. He was too far gone to notice them at all. "Mulder. Some of my best friends are Jewish, did you know that?" He hugged her. "Yep. No question about it, Mulder. I'm a Jew-lover all the way." She was trying to make him laugh, which was incredible after what she'd been through. It took a few moments for the meaning of what she'd just said to sink in, and it was enough to startle him into tearlessness. He drew back, cheeks wet, and looked at her. "Are you, Scully?" She wiped his face with the flat of her thumb. "Afraid so." He smiled at her. "Of course, Mulder, Agent Stein's a nice Jewish girl. I wouldn't want to stand in your way." Heat had started to suffuse his body, his face, as he gazed at her. It took a second to figure out what the hell she was talking about. "Scully, I did that to make a point. Anyway, I don't think she likes me anymore." "I know exactly why you did it, Mulder. You might say I had an epiphany about it." "Ah. A Catholic thing." "As far as I know, the Pope doesn't hold a patent on the experience." "So. What now?" It was an honest question and he waited for an honest answer. It wasn't going to be that easy. She bent her head for a moment before raising it again, her eyes glittering. "Well, I think we should get off the damn hotel stoop and give all these people something else to do." He smiled. "Then," she continued, "I think we should say hi to Juan." "And then?" "And then I think you should tell him to forget about you." Mulder laughed. It was a real laugh. He swung open the door and, this time, when he ran his fingers down her spine to settle at the small of her back, there was something possessive about the gesture. "It'll break his heart, Scully." "My guess is he'll get over it in, oh, say, about three seconds." He paused. "And then what, Scully? Cocktails? Dinner? More dancing?" She shuddered. "I don't think so, Mulder." By the time they reached the front desk, Juan was studying them with a knowing and approving smile. Scully insisted on showering first; Mulder bit down on the urge to gibber that it wasn't necessary for her to go out of her way on his behalf. She pushed him into his room, laughing. "I'll be right back. For God's sake, Mulder; you look as tense as an Italian bridegroom." It was true. Mulder suddenly understood something about the potency of waiting. In the old days, you got engaged, you did some hot and heavy necking for a couple of years, nothing below the waist, nothing without a shirt on, and by the time you got married, you were ready to swing through trees beating your chest. No wonder those people stayed together for 50 years. He'd spent most of his life in one-night stands, paying for the privilege on more than one occasion, just because it was easier and didn't require subterfuge. Empty sex, satisfying to the body, sterile to the soul. He knew everything about Scully. Everything except this. God. Sweet Jesus. Mulder had never felt anything like it. Lust without obsession, without the cheap pantomime of make- believe love, as he'd known it with Phoebe. Phoebe, who'd almost succeeded in draining him of any capacity for feeling he'd had left. What he was feeling right now was lust, all right, lust like he'd never known it before. But it was only one thread in a tapestry he'd woven with Scully over the years, one that was almost completed, rich with the colours of experience, inadvertent betrayals and stunning sacrifices, all the layers of complicity that come with befriending, with getting to know someone better than you know yourself. All that was missing was this. He hopped in and out of the shower, drew on a pair of shorts so she wouldn't be faced right off the bat with what might have looked like simple physical need when that was only part of it, and spent the rest of the time pacing. He bit his lip. That woman would be late for her own wedding night. Hell, she *was* late for her own wedding night. Three thousand years later, there was a knock, a short, efficient Scully knock, one he'd heard a million times before. He leaped to the door and opened it. God. She looked indescribably beautiful. And all she was wearing, as far as he could tell, was the complimentary hotel robe. She smiled ruefully. "Sorry, Mulder. I..." "Shut up, Scully." She squealed as he grabbed her, pulled her into the room and shut the door with his foot. He stood her on the carpet in front of him and met her gaze for a few seconds, his breath already uneven. "How do you feel, Scully?" She graced him with a Mona Lisa smile and touched the angry bruise on his shoulder. The enigmatic Dr. Scully. Then he slipped his fingers under the lapels of her robe and pushed it gently off her shoulders. It fell around her feet. He'd been right. It was all she'd been wearing. For him. Only for him. She stood without flinching as his eyes raked over her, as if she knew he had to see this, to see her like this before he touched her. His eyes closed. He felt her fingers on his face, trailing across his cheek, along his lips, entering his mouth gently for a moment before running down along the line of his jaw. He caught her hand, eyes still closed, and caressed its palm with his lips, nipping at her wrist, biting it, until he heard her groan. Then he opened his eyes, placed his hands on her shoulders and moved them down along her arms until, in one motion, he crouched in front of her, his arms around her buttocks, and despite the pain in his shoulder, lifted her up effortlessly against his body. She gasped as she wrapped her legs instinctively around his waist, her moisture connecting with his belly and sending a shudder through his groin as the soft hair between her legs rubbed against his navel. His mouth was level with her breasts and he began to stroke her nipples with his tongue, first one, then the other, sucking, pulling at them with his teeth so that she moaned, her hands clutching his hair as she threw her head back. After a time he emerged, dazed, to find her writhing against him, her hands clutching his shoulders, her moans tormented, desperate, her cunt grinding helplessly against him as her juices trickled down his stomach, pooling where his erection tented his shorts. God. Oh, God. Her voice was ragged, low, foreign. "Mulder..." He pressed a hand to the back of her head and lowered it until his lips were against hers. "Kiss..." It was as much as he could manage. Her mouth opened, her tongue lashing, her arms gripping his neck in a vice as she bit at his teeth, saliva running down their chins. She seemed to come unhinged, groaning, gnawing and sucking his lips, his tongue, her fingers pulling at his hair as her hips lunged against him. He reeled in the wake of her need, her desire for him. For *him*. She needed mending and she wanted him to do it. Mulder hooked an arm around her knees and laid her on the bed, her hands reaching blindly for his shorts. His cock sprang free as she tugged at them, pulling them down, and then he cried out, once, when she pulled him to her impatiently by the root. As he entered her, there was time for only one thought before shattering pleasure claimed him. God. I'm home. Scully dozed. Mulder lay on his side, propped on an elbow, and traced circles around her nipples with a fingertip. He was having trouble getting over the beauty of her breasts. She murmured restlessly and arched a little against his hand. "I thought men were the ones who were supposed to drop off right after, Scully." "Right after what, Mulder?" she muttered. "This was the third time. You distinctly passed out after the second." "That's because you almost killed me. I was shocked to regain consciousness at all." "Well, as it turned out, you were out but not down," she chuckled sleepily. He snorted and lowered his nose to her breasts, nuzzling them. Scully moaned in protest and pushed at his head. "I'm pooped, Muldoon. Get a hobby." "I have one, thanks." Her fingers lingered in his hair. "You know, Scully," he murmured against her chest, "I think we should name them." "Who?" "Them." He kissed each breast in turn. "Why, for God's sake? They won't come when you call." "Maybe not, but I bet you will -- repeatedly." She smiled and rested a hand on his neck. "Any ideas?" "I think I'll call this one Dana and this one Katherine." His lips loitered. "That way, when your mother asks you why I still call you Scully, you can explain it to her." "I'm sure she'll be profoundly moved." Suddenly, she grabbed him by the ears and pulled his face up to hers. He flicked his tongue languidly around her lips. "Tit for tat, so to speak, Mulder," she said against his mouth. "And I get to name tat." He yelped as her fingers wrapped themselves around him and squeezed gently. "Oh, God. Scully..." "In light of the mockery you've just made of my given names, I think I know just what to call it." "What?" he gasped. She whispered in his ear. Mulder howled with laughter and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him. "I have to say," he chortled, "I never made the connection." "What, that a five-letter word ending with 's' and starting with a certain four-letter word sounds a lot like Fox? And they say you're brilliant. It occurred to me years ago." "You've been using my name in vain for years?" "I'm sorry. No one told me you were God." "Surely we could find a more elegant name for it." "Probably, but it wouldn't be nearly as accurate." "There's nothing more inspiring than a fine scientific mind at work, Scullery." Scully wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his throat. Mulder inhaled sharply, cradling her, pulling her close. God. At last. He stirred reluctantly. "You know, Scully, we still have the car. I think we should bop around tomorrow. Cruise the strip. Go to the beach. Whistle at girls." He chuckled as she slapped his chest. "The car achieved its purpose, Mulder." Her voice was muffled against him. "It's a babe-mobile and you got the babe. What more do you want? Besides," she added as she stretched luxuriously against him, sending a shiver to his groin as one of her nipples brushed against his, "you say that as if you actually expect to get out of bed in the near future." He rolled them both over on to their sides and nudged his namesake against her until she parted her legs and let him nestle between her thighs. "Hmm. While we're playing Name that Organ, what should we call this lovely thing?" He slid against her slowly until he felt her moisture. "Enough," she murmured. "Soon we'll need an address book to keep track of them all." Mulder's arms tightened around her as he guffawed in her hair. "Good idea. That way we can send them cards at Christmas." "I'm not sure the U.S. Postal Service delivers to my erogenous zones, Mulder. Not even Priority Mail." "God." He suddenly stopped laughing. "I love you, Scully." "You sound surprised," she whispered, moving her hips almost imperceptibly against him. "They're such cliched words. I never thought I'd use them." "Are you saying you've never used them before?" "Never." "They're overused, but they're good words, Mulder," she said softly, opening herself to him as he slipped into her with a quiet gasp. "Simple. Direct. That little three-word sentence... mmmm... holds the secret to life's greatest mystery: The lover, the beloved and the process itself." He moved in her gently. "That's how the universe was born, Mulder." She smiled at him, her eyes closing. "All the rest is... is human folly." "Oh, great guru," he breathed against her lips. "Teach me...." END